Autumn and Antenatal classes

Apologies for the hiatus in blog posts.  I have no excuse – I do very little these days except eat cake, gestate and get wider – except that I struggle to know what to write since I’m not an Ajnabiya in London.

I tried to predict in August what I would miss about Doha while I was gone.  Some things I was right about – I do miss fresh tropical fruit and find myself buying criminally expensive pre-packaged pots of mango and pineapple from Marks & Spencers to compensate.  I also miss working (not least because my brain appears to have turned to mush in the absence of any meaningful activities in my days) but not that much.  It’s amazing how quickly one can become accustomed to reading the paper, eating a biscuit, meeting friends for lunch, visiting art exhibitions….

In terms of antenatal care, neither Mr A nor I miss sitting in the Doha hospital waiting area for hours.  Here, my brilliant midwife (always the same woman) comes to my house and spends as much time talking to me as she does checking the baby.  She then takes my blood pressure, palpates my bump (feeling to see what position the baby is in) and measures the bump from top to bottom as an indication of how big the baby is, asks me to pee on a stick and finally attaches a small monitor so we can both hear his (very rapid) heart beating away.  This could not be more different to Doha where every appointment was in the hospital, my blood pressure was always taken by a nurse, and every appointment was with the doctor who never touched my tummy but rather checked the baby with an ultrasound monitor.  There must be advantages to both methods (we haven’t seen the baby on a screen since our last appointment in Doha in mid-August – I miss seeing the little thing squirming away or hiccupping) but there is something reassuring about the low-tech approach of British midwives.  The lack of imaging means we also haven’t seen the little one’s willy since August so let’s hope it’s still there.

The other advantage of late pregnancy in the UK is being in the bosom of the NHS that, apart from the wonderful midwives, also provides me with antenatal classes.  ‘Meet the Midwife’ sessions do pretty much what they say on the tin with the added bonus of new mums describing their recent birth experiences.  A mixed bag.  I suppose it’s good to hear women describe being in unbearable pain for hours but it doesn’t necessarily fill one with enthusiasm.  Antenatal classes involve a midwife running through all various permutations of birthing options (including enthusiasm for home births which I’ll be passing up since we don’t really have a home here) and are a brilliant mixture of local women of various classes, races and ages.  Partners are welcome too (though of course I don’t have one here at the moment) and the highlight so far has been the huge Rasta dude who was intent on getting the midwife to answer when he could ‘get back to the loving’ post-birth, much to the embarrassment of his partner.

I also spent over 4 hours in a breastfeeding workshop that involved more information than it would ever be possible to absorb in that period of time, and practising positioning with small dolls from The Shining.  The dolls were, of course, a mixture of black and white but this didn’t seem to necessarily correspond to the race of the mother.

The other huge bonus of being in London is having friends and family close, though I’m engaged in an ongoing battle with my sister to avoid our child being known as ‘stegosaurus’ for the rest of his life.  I also concentrate (pointlessly) on not getting swine flu.  I haven’t been using that much public transport (though when I do, someone always gives me their seat) but afterwards I obsessively apply antibacterial hand-gel and I ring my GP weekly to find out whether they’ve received the vaccine yet.  I’ve also been having Arabic lessons, essentially paying lots of money to a lovely teacher to be reminded just how much I’ve forgotten since I left Syria.  I am finding it hard to remember what I need from the supermarket so I translating a letter about Shakespeare is really a step too far for the neurones.

We are renting a little temporary flat in East Dulwich for us (once Mr A returns from Doha) and the babe to cosy in through December.  The weather is slowly deteriorating – the clocks have gone back so it now gets dark by 5pm and has been raining more than I would like.  And it’s a bit cold which is unfortunate since I refuse to buy a new coat big enough to encase the bump so the little one probably gets a bit chilly when we go out.  It has to be said that the view from my bedroom is of people’s unkempt gardens rather than the Arabian Gulf.

Dulwich is the antithesis of all things Gulf - cafes full of pregnant/mothering women with deliciously tempting cakes, pubs with dogs and fires (and no smoking), parks, and the trees have been slowly turning so there have been beautiful red and orange leaves everywhere.  I have had ample time to appreciate these colours since I have to walk everywhere quite slowly these days.  I’d forgotten about seasons – Doha has cooler and warmer months, with varying degrees of humidity and wind (something we’re sure to appreciate when we leave dark, cold London in January).

Before I became too large to move very far, I took short trips to Dieppe, France (to eat macaroons) and Sussex (southern England) to visit the De la Warr Pavilion, a restored Modernist building on the coast, where I lowered the average visitor age substantially.  

I also went to Charleston farmhouse nearby where various members of the Bloomsbury group bed-swapped for many years with a variety of male and female companions.  Now that is certainly not the kind of museum you get in Doha.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that kind of set-up would be illegal in Qatar.  It’s the first museum I’ve visited where I’ve been the weak woman in the corner sitting on the chair while the guide explains what you’re looking at.

I think we now own everything we are meant to, to keep a baby in the style to which they appear to be hardwired to be accustomed.  We have a car seat, and a buggy, and plentiful nappies.  In fact, our little flat is full of more babycrap than my and Mr A’s possessions put together.  Now I am waiting with my legs crossed for Mr A to get back to the UK, in total denial that the babe could arrive early.  In theory he’s due in under two weeks so we’ll see……

Wish us luck!

[P.S. Since I left Doha I have missed a ladies tennis tournament (Williams sisters final), the Tribeca film festival and (this Saturday) England playing Brazil at football.  Who says there's nothing to do in Qatar?]