The breast pump

Here is something to balance out all the cutesy baby posts.

The breast pump, to which the foreplay are leaking great dark nipples, bursting from a web of dark blue veins of the nurturing breast.

For those of you who secretly never got over the sheer terror of ejaculation, partly due to those porn movies where three Romanian guys come on a ladies eyeball as she finds the will deep within to hunt the little white clots with her toungh simultaneously - but i guess that is a story for the other night.

So those of you who secretly or unashamedly do not count the fountain of a penis to the top ten treats of human existence, I assure you you will never get over the breast pump, second only to castration in the battle to reduce an excessive libido.

Pop a few batteries into that bad-boy and spank up your cleavage with it as you walk down dingy deep corridors at night and you will not get raped even if you would really like to.

It brings something to light due to its clear plastic body that was never meant to be witnessed by the naked human eye - the naked female nipple as it amorphs rhythmically into a sponge expanding, changing shape, changing colour looking utterly bewildering.

This was meant to be hidden behind toothless little cheeks in the rosy depth of babies throats.
It was not meant to be displayed while watching TV.
It was not meant to be used in the bedroom (unless intended as a contraceptive)
It was not meant to lye on next to the kitchen sink, stained with and smelling like mothers milk.

But it always happens. The woman next door with the key comes in while you use it behind closed blinds.
Your girlfriends say, sure go right ahead, not getting the hint, which you see they bitterly regret a few moments later as it starts tugging on your breast. Or they stare at it morbidly transfixed. Either way you know well, some of the population decline is now reducible to this simple act of yours.

Your husband falls asleep to its monotone rhythm.

And before you know it, you will be sitting on the couch, half naked, digging the grave of the eroticism of your once admired breasts a little deeper with the cunning use of the pump, yet you will absentmindedly ask your husband for a morning kiss.

Ground zero comes when you decide to write a blog entry about it.

And as for posting that - I can t even find the words...



I have never embraced anyone like I embrace you.
Its a gentle dance the whole day long.
It can not stop, so it will not stop.
Perpetually hoping that it keeps you safe and content.
Trying to set your whole life to the beat of happiness.



My baby.

Trisztanka baba.
Tristu baby.

That's all I can think, talk or write about at any length. I hoped this would not happen, but it very much did. I could maybe tell a little about the first book I read after the birth - this detail seems to be more important than title or author. So, Good bye Berlin is fab. Blablabla.

My cool little baby.


10 May

he was born


in 2011

the supermodel professor

everything changed

little did we know
little do we know

the mother

love weighs you down like a ton of bricks.
it is all of the sudden everywhere.

your lover falls asleep on the sound of your breastpump
your son wakes with your milk on his little mind

overnight, via the horrendous act of labour you become a family, belinging happens like never before

three is your magic number
you are never to be alone, you smile, you cry
this is as permanent as it gets

and you heal while he grows
and you sing when he is awake
and you melt and shine



The end of the third trimester definitely has a Kafka-esque air about it.



When you are 38 weeks pregnant the physical becomes a bit challenging to say the least.

You might have to rape your husband to begin with.
Get rid of all your insecurities.
Position yourself so the piles and other pregnancy extras don't show.

Once coitus is successfully established you have to shake the idea that you might kill your child the same way you gave it life, before you actually gave it life proper.

Heavily pregnant sex is as down to earth as sex ever gets.

Yet it has the utmost surreal dimension lurking in the deepest dark as well:

"He touches my feet and I can not breathe. just too intense"

"I do not recall copulating with a horse, but I do have physical evidence to prove it."

"Honey, and I hate myself for asking this, but would you like me to do that?"



Why do I have to be the wrapping around this most precious gift of life?


New things

I started painting my nails.

I think it is a bad sign.

Three weeks from now I wont have a breathing chance to do so so I am not overly concerned.

Nail varnish. French mini manicure. How very peculiar.

And than I have not told you about my new-found fetishes relating to ice cubes (tiny ones) and bath sponges. Hmmm.

Oh yeah.

Must go now. My nails a dry.


Bite me

They will try to scare you with all possible means.
All of them.
Things to worry about will be thrown at you from all angles imaginable.
And than all angles unimaginable.

For instance.

There is this little thing called transition, somewhere between the first and second part of labour, that supposed to be the worst ever pain known to humankind. Until you hit crowning and than it supposed to turn up a notch, where the humble vagina becomes the ring of fire. Thank you.

But back to transition. The woman who runs our antenatal classes tells us that our man at this stage should just step away from our labouring selfs, for we become unpredictable to the point of dangerous. Our other half should run for your life.

Our pretty faces will twist in furious anger.
Our cherry lips will spill abuse.
And we will hit and we will bite.

Or we will withdraw into some cocoon filled with pain and motionless silence.

I told the man, that I find it a bit unfair that she constantly keeps on adding to the black list.
He though the biting was over the top as well.

I know that I have myself a real man.
And I know that he loves me for real.

He just looked me in the eye, and said: Babe, it at that point you feel like you need to bite me, than you bite me, ok?

Fuck yeah.


In the dark


My husband keeps my knifes sharp.



The boy has no name.
We cant find it.

Other peoples views suck.
I hate other people with their children. Yeah, you can talk naming him Otto. Retard.
I hate other people without children. Whats your name? Peter. Shut up already, will you?
Favourite: Think about him sitting in the school and his name is called.How would that little boy feel with a name like that?

The boy, my son, should just come to me and tell me: My name is X. In my dream I mean.

Some say - fully unpromted naturally - that we should wait until we see the kid and than look deep into his eyes and than it will come to us.

What id he will look like a beaten up meatloaf after birth?
What will I be like after birth?
The man will be traumatised for sure.

Is that really the most appropiate moment to make a decision for his whole life?

Do I want to have the, yes I did name you Bela, but prior to that you massacared my ladygarden? No.


Love Supreme

You know there are different types of love.

The love you you carry around on key chains, and have printed on t-shirt.

The ready-made type, like heart-shape cupcakes and mass produced valentines cards.

In an old song by Little Paul and the Badger the timely question was asked: is love done by saying I love you and other nice things many times?

Puzzled me for a while, this love thing and I loved the different explanations even though none seemed satisfactory. Like the androgyns, who were chopped in two by jealous gods, only to seek their other half - literally - for the whole of their life. The quest of love.

My own version, that sufficed for a wile, was stolen from Jung who said something - brace yourself for the layman language philosopher friends and shut up - that the constant imbalance between our two integral parts: the human animal and the intellectual makes existence a struggle, since when the human animal is satisfied the intellectual is starving and when we full-fill all our intellectual needs the human animal gets sidelined and gets sick.

Well I thought - at the tender age of 16 - that love heals this bipolar nightmare, with sticking a balance. I know it is not very feminist, but I thought man is the solution.

Surely there is one out there who will both fuck you well and talk to you about interesting things.

And of course there are man equally stimulating in bad and over coffee.

But love is so much more complex than that.

Love learns to read you over the years.

Love makes you a better person.

Love is in fact stronger than death.

Ok hormones lets go for a walk.



I am going to be 29 tomorrow.

Off to chew on some calcium pills and do other old-lady things.


Fairtrade coffee

I think I would endure giving birth in front of my entire royal court, like queens used to do, if in return I I would have people bringing me coffee in the morning.

I think that is fair.

What may not be is to train my newborn to perform the task, yet I may give it a go. It is about time someone figured out what babies are for.


I like the dark

Hit me with some dark humour any old day, Im a taker. Throw the acid cyinicism and I will double it. The blackest armpit a black humour can be furthered I think and enjoyed.

Only this is not appropiate when you are pregnant.

I am already dreading when I am supposed to giggle about cute things other people's kids did.

Other people's kids suck. They put me of my pregnancy.

Just to give you a mild idea: when we told the american side of family, that we have decided to call the boy Meticulous after his father who is the cleanest and tidiest person ever, they were terrified.

He will be bullied, he will be an outcast, nobody will get his name, he will always have to explain.

Have you met me? Have you met your brother? Our kid is going to be no outcast bullyboard. Our kid is going to be king of the universe.

Anyway, jocking about your baby is ok people. You will commit much greater deeds against him, than stating that he will go to the orphanage if not clever enough.

We are his mum and dad we ought to fuck him up.


In the kitchen

Yesterday, as I was washing my chef-knife after carving up avocados I suddenly smelled something for the very first time.

It was a baby-thing. Or mother thing.

Alien, yet plesent - it took me a while to establish that it was in fact mine.

A whiff of the future. Small, naked, pink smell.

The way other people smell. Mainly in catalogues. I never thought that one day I will have that sort of, sweet, organic, clean smell.
I thought that I am very much set for the much heavier drapery of tarr, or best case scenario Gucci.

Should have never gave up smoking. Could not smell anything than.


Emotions :{


Whatever that means. It is a brutal reduction of something so immensely complex that language can't possibly express it accuratly and than we throw this on our emotions and we are sorted.


Me and my hormones go to curious places. I was in the shower with the boy when the emotion hit me.
That I love the man.
That I love the man so much /beat
that it might be time to /beat

Tatto his name on to my arm.


TATTO his name on to MY ARM.

The sheer terror of love, and the unprobability of the freak of all my ideas was dripping from me together with warm water and the palmolive spa cucumber edition.

I promised the boy there in the shower that his mother will not loose it.
That he will be born to the woman whose womb he implanted himself, who was funny and intelligent and unique.

It might take some wrestling with petrifyingly random thoughts, but I will win.

I have to win.



The god-given animal instinct

I had this thought during my midday shower today, that I respect and trust my body more than ever before.

It is not the most comfortable place of late, it will no longer get me on page six or win me an olympic medal, but for heavens sake, it assembled a fully functioning human being out of a microdrop of sperm.

I also think that pregnancy is a wonderful and rare chance for women to reconnect with the natural world. You have to trust your body above all; more than your doctor, your midwife, your mothering friends, your baby-grow vitamins and your calcium supplements. Books are placebo, the internet is overkill, no app on your 4G Iphone will get you far.

It has to be you natural physical ability and your god-given animal instinct.
You have to listen to them most.
You have to let them take over.

I have never thought it is possible to feel so out of control and powerful at the same time.

Cue Lion King.