I bought a magazine and I left it on the train.

Well, the railroad company can add it to my large collection of forgotten umbrellas.

With Mrs.B keeping her toes up in the air, it was up to me to do the shopping these last three weeks. Fair enough, I usually do the Saturday morning run to get the groceries anyway. But I hadn't counted on the fact that it's the summer sales period. Regular readers (yes, you two) of this blog know how I feel about sales period. It's what small antelopes think about the crocodile infested pond that's the only source of drinkable water in a 500 mile radius: if there were only a way to avoid it.

I needed a bunch of new clothes, like really really badly. I wear T-shirts that are made from linen because cotton hadn't been discovered yet when I bought them. My collection of single socks is probably the largest in the world. I've got strings for underwear that started their careers as boxer shorts. My sweaters were all the fashion in the 19th century. And the police have issued a warning that they'd arrest me the very next time they see me in one of my shorts.

Still, all fine and dandy. After all, I used to buy me own clothes back when I was still single. The bad part is that my sweet flamingo needed some clothes too. Among them were items such as underwear and pyjamas. And that is where the drama begins.

In Belgium we're all for the equality of sexes, but we also must admit that this supposed equality is not perfect. Women earn less on average and they find it much more difficult to have a career and climb to the ranks of upper management. However, no-one stares at them when they buy underwear for their husbands. No-one sniggers or smiles.

I, on the other hand, found myself to be the only man in the women's lingerie department. I tried hard not to notice the strange glances and the knowing smiles when I browsed through panties and knickers. And I desperately tried to cool off that red beet my head had turned into when I inquired about pyjamas. For all the feminist bullshit, shopping in a lingerie store is like looking for a particular CD while being engulfed in flames. After a couple of minutes I could take no longer, and I had to restrain myself from not running out in sheer panic.

But once I got out, I'd realised that I had still not found what I was supposed to get, and that meant that another visit to yet another lingerie shop awaited me.

Things are slowly turning back to normal. Mrs.B is still hopping around with extra support beams (her crutches), but at least she's able to support some of her weight on her left foot. That makes it much easier to move about the house, get dressed, climb stairs and generally do things. On the other hand, every day it becomes clearer that the baby's delivery is neigh, because she's more and more restricted in her movements by her ballooning belly.

Today she returned to work for the first day, with the car because last Friday we tested if she could operate the clutch with her bad foot, and she could. So if all goes more or less well, I'll see my wife and car again this evening. Ooooh, the excitement!

So this morning I found myself back waiting for the bus - riding the bus - waiting for the train - riding the train - walking to work again. These last three weeks I took the car because I had to drop Wolf off at the childcare / playground. Then, it was a mad dash to get to work in time - but invariably arrive late - and in the evening I had to sneak out early to pick him up before 6pm. I guess commuters taking the motorway between Brussels and Antwerp will feel much safer now. Today and tomorrow, Wolf will be staying at my parents', but later this week his mother will bring him to the playground.

Frankly, it's a bit of a relief that I don't have to do everything on my own any more, even though Mrs.B is still limited to doing things seated or hopping on one leg. Yesterday I really felt drained of all energy, I was barely able to stay up. And between a toddler that demands attention and a wife that demands the remote control and a glass of water and the light to be turned off/on and her pills and fresh clothing and this and that, there's not much chance of taking a nap.

Just a quick word, to confirm that yes, we're back from France. I'd like to say we got back in one piece, but that would be incorrect.

We had a lovely time, two weeks of nothing but sunshine. We spent our time in the pool and on the beach, with the occasional excursion to nearby towns. But unfortunately some of these excursions were for medical reasons. We went to the local baby doctor twice to have a check-up after Mrs.B felt there might be something wrong. Luckily, both times it turned out everything was A-Ok.

Our third medical excursion was for an entirely different reason, but it did involve Mrs.B. It was on the morning of our departure, when she and Wolf went out to get some 'croissants' from the camping store. They had barely left when I heard screams and shouting from both my wife and my son.

I raced out and found both lying on the ground, Wolf crying and panicking while my wife was crying out in pain. It turned out she had stumbled and did something terribly wrong with her ancle. Wolf was Ok, but very frightened by the whole experience.

The local ambulance refused to come for a broken foot, so I had to haul Mrs.B in the car and drive her to the nearest hospital - which was 45 minutes away. Luckily-luckily-luckily I'd bought a GPS before we went to France, I don't know what I would have done without that thing.

A couple of hours later - the French medical care system is about as fast as any African country's - we got the verdict: the ankle was not broken but severely strained. Mrs.B got a plastic clamp around her lower leg and we could drive back home.

Easier said than done: with my wife in one chair and her foot in another, it was up to me to clean the bungalow, get everything into the car (luckily we'd packed the previous evening), return the key, get out the garbage, chase Wolf and his dirty paws out of the bungalow, etc. etc. But in the afternoon we could finally leave.

But it was not  the end of our troubles, because you try to drag a pregnant woman without crutches to the second floor of your hotel when there's no lift. Going to the restaurant alone was an endurance test in hopping.

So the first thing we did when we returned was go get some crutches. To be on the safe side, we made an appointment with our own physician. But he didn't need much time to conclude that something more serious was wrong with that ankle. A couple of X-rays later it was confirmed that a tendon (or part of it, I forgot) got loose and took a bit of bone with it. So recovery will take six to eight weeks, instead of three.

So ever since that fall, I've been running around like crazy. Not only do I have to take care of Mrs.B, but I also have to keep the house clean, do the laundry, do the dishes, get Wolf in and out of bed, get him dressed, bring him to the daycare centre, get him back in the evening, cook...

Six more weeks of this and I'll definitely need another vacation. Too bad that we'll have another newborn baby right about that time.

I never knew they're had been so many nuclear tests - plus the two times atomic bombs that were actually used in anger. Almost half of them were conducted by the US, with the Americans detonating 10 bombs for every 7 Soviet nukes (up to the early 1980, it's almost 2 US bombs for every USSR bomb).

France did its best too, with one-tenth of the total number of explosions.

Worst holiday destination: south-western United States. When you go camping in the Rocky Mountains, you don't need to bring a flashlight, you'll body glow up in the dark after a day or so.

(via Michel)

At the age of thirty-seven¹
he realised he would soon²
Ride through Paris³
in a sports car⁴
with the warm wind⁵
in his hair⁶.

(Ballad of Lucy Jordan, by Marianne Faithfull)

We took the belly to the gynaecologist the other day for another check. After a bit of mucking about with clear toothpaste and her echo scanning thingy, the baby doctor explained that all is looking well. Mrs.B is not having those dangerous series of contractions any more. The extra days of rest have worked - even the doctor remarked that she is not bouncing off the walls any more.

However, it's not clear whether Mrs.B's cervix has thinned or not - it just may have. so this Friday she has to have another check-up just to be on the safe side. If she passes that one, we can go on holiday to France. If we can't go, I may develop contractions.

What's also clear is that we're going to get a whopping baby, his or her measurements are well above average. Seems like Wolf is not going to push this little brother or sister around!

Welcome to the House of Bart, for another tale of terror and woe!

It was a cold rainy night, some time after midnight - as is customary in horror stories. On the second floor, a small child cries.

Dog tired, I drag my butt up the stairs to check on Wolf. In the dim light coming from behind me in the hallway, I see that he is sitting on his knees in the bed. But there's something strange about his face and arms. So I switch on the light, seeing that he's awake anyway.

I'm struck by the horror of the scene. Wolf's face and neck are covered in blood, as are his hands and arms up to the elbows. He whimpers softly. As I pick him up to inspect, I see there's blood in his hair and on his sleeping bag, with a large spot under his left ear. His bed is covered in blood stains too; his pillow is practically drenched in blood.

'What happened', I ask him, but he doesn't answer. I look for a cut on his head - maybe he's fallen out of bed - but I can't find anything wrong. So I take him downstairs, put him on the cupboard next to the kitchen sink and start to wash his face and arms. 'My hands are red', he says.

When he's all cleaned up he looks like a little boy again instead of a  character out of a Hitchcock film. There are not cuts on his head after all, it seems he must have had a bloody nose.

I return to his room to put clean bed linen on his bed, while he plays downstairs. When around 2.30AM, I'm finally ready to put him to bed, he protests that he wants to play and not go to sleep. But when I put him in bed, it doesn't take long before he dozes off.

I on the other hand, have more problems to go back to sleep. That image of his bloodied up face and the shock of fear I felt still keep my adrenaline levels way up.

We went to the gynaecologist's yesterday for the four-weekly check-up. The baby is fine and growing fast - which came as no surprise because Mrs.B just received a honorary membership card from the international ballooning society.

But the doctor's verdict on the mother's health was less positive. My sweet bouncing ball has had too much on the agenda recently. Our weekends are packed with birthday parties, spring celebrations, open school days (our first one!) and various social occasions. And her work has been driving her mad lately. She was supposed to have another colleague to assist her by now, but given that this person has yet to be hired, she's doing a double job while being five months into her pregnancy.

So the doctor was adamant: if she continues to work and live like this with stress levels going through the roof, the baby may come too soon. Much too soon. So Mrs.B has to calm down now or face lying down for weeks in the near future. Amongst other things, that would mean cancelling our vacation in France.

Now calming down Mrs.B is not as easy as it may seem. In fact it's easier to tranquillize a charging rhinoceros with a syringe and a catapult, with a dose that's just enough for a small dog so you would shoot him about fifty times and retrieve the syringe before he gets to you. Trust me on this, I've tried.

So the gynaecologist looked very stern every time my wife uttered 'But I have to do this and that' and gave her the rest of the week off. And the coming weeks she can only work four days out of five. And she has to take medication. And if that doesn't work more rest will be described. And it's strictly forbidden to use that time to clean up the house or anything like that.

That baby needs to stay inside for another six weeks, at the very least. Another eight weeks and we'll be on a much safer side. But twelve weeks is definitely better.

We really hope the baby will hang in there until the end of August.

Mrs. B and I had a fight the other night. One of those typical 'you're throwing our money out of the doors and windows' fights every couple will eventually have when they're transforming the house. I want things to move on  - especially with a new baby coming soon - so I'll pop out to buy 'a couple of things' in the DIY shop. And then Mrs.B will go ballistic when she goes over the accounts and sees that I surpassed my 'monthly budget' (her idea).

So we had a lovely scene in the garden right in front of the neighbours and then some more - calm - discussions in the middle of the night. But still she feels I buy too much on credit and still I feel she treats me like a little baby with no sense of responsibility.

This morning Mrs.B took Wolf with her to buy some bread. Ten minutes later, I heard to doorbell. It was a taxi driver who'd lost his way and asked me if I knew a certain street. The streets behind our house are a typical 1980's maze of dead ends connected with footpaths and bicycle roads. I'd never heard of that particular road, so the chap asked me to come see on his GPS. 'Sure', I said.

So Mrs.B turns around the corner and sees me climb into a waiting taxi.

An icy feeling of panic grips her.

Meanwhile, I notice her and Wolf calling my name, as I apologize to the taxi man because I still don't know where that street is. So I get out of the taxi again and not realising at first what this must have looked like I say: 'you're back already? Did you find any bread?'