ONLY A MOTHER WOULD LOVE IT

Take a gander at this picture people.  Even the technician was a little startled when it popped up on the screen.  I don’t quite know how she did it, it looks like something Salvador Dali would come up with. 

But lets focus on the positives – what a beautiful lip line it has.  (Further convincing me we’re having a girl).  And true, it looks like a snotty pig face, but it’s our snotty pig face, so we’ve got no one to blame but ourselves.

Tomorrow night is pelvic floor class – and yes, Gregory is coming with me – although our friend unhelpfully said to him that he reckons Gregory is going to be the only guy there, then even more unhelpfully added that in the antenatal class he went to, they separated him from his partner and made him do group work with total strangers.  That would be absolute torture for Gregory, not that I’m looking forward to that either, but I’m used to stupid improv. and getting to know you games.  I’m in musical theatre, there’s usually something of that in your first rehearsal.

On the upside, said our friend trying to make Gregory feel better, all the other women who turned up alone, are going to go home raving about the one fabulous father who was there and how they wished they had such a supportive birth partner.

It could make for a fabulous blog people…stand by for updates…

GUILT AND GINA FORD. I GOT 'EM BOTH!

The response to the great nappy debate was fabulous, thank you one and all.  My favourite comment came from my friend Bec, who said the following; “whatever you choose, don't feel guilty. Motherhood is an amazing rollercoaster of guilt, so why add to it?”

Touché, my friend, touché.  Take now for example.  I have been struck down by a dreadful cold and as horse radish and Echinacea can apparently possess harmful properties for your baby, I am only taking minimal amounts of Panadol and even that makes me feel bad!  Not as bad as the copious amounts of snot tumbling from my nose, or the headache that is pounding outside of my skull or the fact that I’m managing to waste precious recovery energy on stressing about how much work I haven’t done, but bad none the less.

In this week’s Good Weekend there is another article about parenting designed to insight a riot…the controversial Maternity nurse Gina Ford who guarantees that by week eleven your baby will be sleeping through the night.  

I’m sure she’s got some great ideas, and plenty of success stories to back those up, but I just doubt Gregory’s and my ability to stick to such a regimented routine.  Listen to this;

7am

Baby should be awake, nappy changed and feeding no later than 7am. 

Now, Ms Ford writes from the assumption that the baby’s parents operate on a regular 9-5 ish schedule.  Whether our baby likes it or not, it ain’t coming into a family like that.  Based on the fact that we don’t tend to go to bed till about 2am, (which yes, could possibly have something to do with me currently being sick) do you reckon we can push her schedule a few hours back a bit?  Start this first time slot at say, 8.30 instead?

8am

Make sure you get some breakfast

And then she tells you what to eat - cereal, toast and a drink.  At least she doesn’t specify what spread to put on your toast!

8.15am

Baby should be getting sleepy.  Take him to his room.

Firstly, fifteen minutes is not long enough to really enjoy your cup of tea and toast, but I can manage to wolf down cereal that quickly.

Secondly – Gregory and I think we’re having a girl (based on nothing but a couple of dreams by the way) but since we don’t know for sure, I’m going to refer to the baby as ‘it’ instead.

Thirdly – do they really get tired that fast?  They’ve only been up for an hour!

8.30am

This is a good time to wash and sterilize any bottles and expressing equipment.

I thought the whole point of feeding from the boob meant you got out of expressing.  I am as scared of milking myself like a cow as I am of epidurals.

9.45am

Open the curtains and unswaddle the baby so it can wake up naturally.

That’s not a natural wake up – let me poke your little eyeballs with direct sunlight and unwrap you so you’re not warm and cozy anymore.  Thanks mum, you’re awesome.

10am

Baby must be fully awake now regardless of how long it slept.  It should be given 20-25 minutes on the breast it last fed on while you have a large glass of water.  Lay it in their Moses basket so it can have a good kick and doesn’t become too sleepy while you prepare equipment for expressing.

Can you tell which boob you last used?  I’m assuming one is lighter than the other.  Otherwise I’m bound to forget details like that. 

Don’t you love how she tells you to drink water.  What if I want a cup of decaf tea?  Or…heaven forbid caffeinated coffee!

And then the Moses basket that we don’t have and weren’t intending on getting.

10.45am

Express 60ml.

I know there are no guarantees, but I really hope the peanut and I can work out the breastfeeding gig because I am really looking forward to it.

11am

The baby gets more milk from the boob you expressed from.

11.20am

Baby should start to get sleepy at this time.  If it doesn’t settle within ten minutes, offer it ten minutes from the fullest breast.  Do this in the dark with no talking or eye contact.

Ok.  Not gonna happen.  I have been besotted with this baby since those initial days of indigestion when I was secretly convinced I was pregnant.  Ain’t no way.  I’m gonna stare at it every chance I get. 

Now, since I perform, do freelance writing and teach for only a few hours at a time, I am hopefully in a position for the peanut and I to muddle through for a bit until we work out our own little routine.  But if you had to go back to work immediately, I can see how this lady could really pull you into line.

Maybe I should get it for Gregory to see if she’s got a few pointers for overworked Chefs…

WHEN DO BABIES BEGIN CONSCIOUS THOUGHT?

There can be nothing more deflating for one’s ego than to have to squeeze into pants that used to sit nicely low on the hips, with plenty of room and no pulling across the front.                                            At two a.m one evening last week, (I am really productive at that time of night) I packed up my pre-peanut clothes while Gregory lay on the bed, waving and saying; “goodbye jeans, see you next March.”  I still don’t really scream pregnant to the average person, but I have donned the maternity clothes with pride and a sigh of comfortable relief.  Gotta be honest though, it’s lucky I’m already knocked up, because if Gregory ever saw me in my pregnancy leggings he wouldn’t come near me with a ten foot pole.  I look like a long-legged, bloated Christmas beetle.                                                                                              It was a shopping job for an obliging mother, and after discovering that both DJ’s and Myer in the city had removed their maternity sections entirely, (a discrimination I would take up with the head of DJ’s if he hadn’t fled the nation in a disgrace of sexual harassment) we found ourselves in an industrial part of Castle Hill, where had it been left up to me, we would still be driving around trying to get us out of, two days later.

I am now in possession of enough clothes to get me through the winter (if I wash almost every day unfortunately) but when we return to the States at the end of July, right in the middle of their summer, I may have to wear the dress I still haven’t bought for the weddings we’re attending for our entire ten day stay.  People with opinions (and when you’re pregnant, everyone seems to have one) all told me to just buy bigger clothes, but my arms and legs will hopefully not expand in a similar ratio to my belly and when I tried that method, I looked like a kid dressing up in Grandma’s old clothes.                               Next thing to fix is my peanut pimples, pregnancy acne, whatever you want to call it.  They are very unattractive and compounded my self-esteem problem while I was still trying to squeeze into pants that easily fit me when I was training to run a marathon.  Add to that a bit of a dry, scaly patch right in the middle of my back where I can’t reach to put moisturising cream on, and I am one attractive broad, I gotta tell you.  That’s the great thing about kids though isn’t it?  I don’t recall ever having an opinion of my mother’s looks as a young child.  She was just mum and I knew I belonged to her.  That sense of, well, ownership for want of a better word, is a concept I’m already quite enamoured with.  How cool to have made someone that belongs solely to me, and the man I love.  Gregory and I own our very own human.  Well, foetus at the moment if you want to be specific, but I bet it’s devoting as much time to developing its personality as it is to repositioning its ears (they slowly work their way around the head apparently, so that by the time the baby is born it no longer looks like an alien…we hope).                                                      I’ve been pondering the peanut of late (as I am often want to do) and am wondering at what point it begins conscious thought.  According to my weekly baby email, our developing human has just started to dream and I wonder what a little being who has never met anything outside its little amniotic sac can possibly be dreaming about.  Last night I dreamt about lions and elephants attacking me, but I know what those things are.  You can’t dream what you don’t know…or can you?  Now there’s a question for you blogees, anyone into existentialism?

THE GREAT PLASTIC VERSUS CLOTH NAPPY DEBATE CONTINUES...

This was printed in this past Saturday's Good Weekend people.
And what do we think of it my bloggies?
Seems crazy that I separate my recyclables, never buy water when I'm out to save on plastic, take my own shopping bags, buy bulk where possible and yet I would consider not using cloth nappies.
And yet...convenience, ease and speed are factors that weigh very heavily in mine and Gregory's life.

"The average baby goes through some 8000 nappies.  Cloth nappies are by far the more environmentally responsible and cheaper option (though less so if you use a dryer), but nine in ten Australian mothers use disposables instead.  That's a lot of landfill.  If this worries you, and you can't face the laundry, and you're willing to pay a little more, a Tasmanian company, Eenee, produces a range of disposable "eco nappies" including ones that are fully compostable."

8000 NAPPIES!!!!!!!!!!!  Am I really going to have to change 8000 nappies?????  How quickly can you toilet train?  At the same time you stop breastfeeding???

I've been feeling guilty even considering plastic nappies ever since I read this.  And yet it would be so much easier if I did...still if I was looking for ease, I wouldn't have signed up for this parenting gig to begin with now would I?  

BABY ADVICE OVERWHELMS!!!

Ladies, I thank you.  And I love that your advice was so long, you had to send it to me in a personal email.
It is midnight and my brain is buzzing with things like high chairs (never occurred to me a baby might like to sit up) bouncer (never occurred to me that they might like something other than the floor to sit on) cots (who knew a baby's sleeping place could create such discussion) and of course the great debate of cloth versus plastic nappies.  Gregory has lots of supporters it seems, I just feel bad.  I read in the Herald that every baby uses an average of 8000 nappies each.
That's like Mount Everest being build with landfill 133 million times every year!!!!
Truly, I'm very grateful and very overwhelmed.  Your child's welfare is not the kind of thing you want to screw up now is it?
I bid you goodnight with dreams of dummy brands and baby bottles running through my mind...

HALFWAY THERE AND STILL NOT A CLUE

According to the internet (my very favourite location for all information and yes I do know that Wikipedia does not count as a legitimate factual source) 133 million babies are born every year.  That’s 247 babies born every minute, or 4 every second. 

That is a lot of pushing and grunting going on in the universe all day and all night long.  And really puts into perspective the fact that while Gregory and I may think we’re the only two people clever enough to have managed this feat of reproduction, we are, in fact, highly unoriginal.

At eighteen weeks, I am halfway there and I will freely admit that while I may be super excited to meet the peanut, it is probably a very good thing we’ve got this much time again to get organised for the imminent arrival of a human that is solely under our responsibility. 

We haven’t bought a single thing despite my having read that early in the second trimester is the best time to purchase baby items before I get too big and uncomfortable. We have not had the battle of cloth versus plastic nappies - though I can tell you right now where Gregory stands on that one, and it’s squarely in the camp of landfill.  Feel free to weigh in on this controversial topic if you will. 

The baby will share a room with me in my office, which means my music and writing will have to be consolidated to make room for a bassinet and whatever else babies need for early life.  I’m hoping to avoid purchasing a change table as I figure any sort of flat surface will suffice, but if we go for cloth nappies, changing on the bed is out of the question as we’re renting a house that comes with a water bed (very 1980’s we know, but don’t worry I haven’t started wearing shoulder pads and bubble skirts yet) and I can just imagine the peanut rolling away and me causing a flood as I pierce the bed with a sharp nappy pin.  

I’ve tried to compile a list of essentials and so far I’ve come up with this –

Clothes – it’s summer.  Does it really need any?

Pram – so I can start running again.

Something to sleep in – which my aunty responded with ‘I’ve still got the bassinet I borrowed for my kids that you all slept in.  Are you opposed to second hand items?’  Am I opposed to second hand items she asks.  Is she kidding?  My favourite store is Salvation Armani.

We figure that’s the essentials covered.  I’m hoping it will take to the boob, (we saw a fabulous billboard on our road trip across America last year that read; Breast Milk Is The Best Milk.  Eat At Mums) which is free and travels easily thus avoiding the need for bottles and sterilising equipment which, from what I’ve seen looks like a lot of hard work.

I wouldn’t mind however, seeking professional advice.  So if you’re a professional (and by that I mean do you own your own human) feel free to leave a comment and let me know what I do need, what I definitely don’t need.  Where to shop, how much to spend and whether it is really necessary to begin research on pre-schools now. 

Any information based on actual experience is gratefully received.  I enjoy specifics, so add them in.  Don’t be general, that’s what I’ve got the internet for.  Speaking of, it’s taken me roughly twenty minutes to write this, (I’m a little distracted as I’m writing in company) which means that from the start of this blog until its end, there are now 4940 more humans in the world.

And that my friends, is a marvelous miracle indeed.

WINE VERSUS AVOCADO

Does anybody else wonder if the number of calories they used to consume in alcohol is greater or lesser than what they are currently consuming in extra food for their peanut?

I ask, because this very thought occurred to me yesterday when I lunched on jatz biscuits liberally covered with avocado and salt.  At the time it seemed like a perfectly well adjusted meal. 

And I’m wondering, just out of curiosity, if I’m actually ahead in caloric intake and am technically losing weight even while my waistline expands.

According to the internet;

1 small glass of wine = 94 calories.

1 gin and tonic = 110 calories.

Pre-peanut it would be fair to admit that I would have enjoyed one large gin and tonic and probably two glasses of wine, six out of seven nights a week.  Judge me if you will, but its all past tense, the only damage I was doing was to myself.  No permanent hangover for this baby.

1 small avocado = 226 calories 

It would also be fair to say that yesterday I consumed at least that much.

I’m also a bit of a bandit for bread and pasta since the peanut, and my trusty website informs me that bagels (I’ve found a place in Australia that my American husband approves of) are equal to 319 calories.  I don’t even want to know what they add up to smothered in peanut butter and honey.

By my calculations, my pre-pregnant average daily intake of alcohol roughly equaled 298 calories.

The avocado and the bagel equal 545 calories.

Which means I’m 247 calories in the red.  This is not good news, particularly when you consider that according to medical professionals, the extra food required for those incubating humans is equivalent to half a cheese sandwich.  And that only equals 102.5 calories which still leaves me in trouble.

 If it weren’t for the devastating effect it would have on my unborn child, I am tempted to consider rekindling previous habits…who knew being healthy could be this bad for you.

A WEEK IN THE LIFE OF NAOMI AND THE PEANUT

This week in the life of Naomi and the peanut;
1 - the peanut has stolen my curl.  I think it's making curly hair because mine is falling flat and lifeless like a badly kept hippie.
2 - still don't have internet.  which would explain my tardy blogging this week.  to my loyal fans (i think that means my aunt and her friends) I am hoping to rectify the situation by the beginning of next week.
3 - i'm out.  the pants are too tight.  well, arguably I can just manage to do them up but when I did, gregory yelled 'stop, you're squashing the peanut.'  I am going to purchase some super long tops (i have a ridiculously long torso to begin with) and see if i can leave everything undone and just cover it up.  This is because I"m a tight arse and don't like to spend money on myself and also because everyone told me I wouldn't show until i was at least five months so now i feel like i have to hide it for another few weeks at least.  I'll take a pic so you can all pass judgement.
4 - we are TIRED.  i have over-committed myself (you'd think by now i'd have learnt) and am a tired little baby growing mama.
5 - it is friday, which means it's nearly saturday which means then it's sunday which is my favourite day of the week.
Have a wonderful day in cyberspace friends, xx

THE PEANUT GETS SOME FAT

WEEK SEVENTEEN IN UTERUS LAND...Your baby will begin to form fat this week. The fat begins to deposit under his skin and is important in heat production and metabolism.


And I figure it needs a helping hand, so having just devoured my scrambled eggs and sourdough toast at the local cafe (still haven't got internet) I am now going to order their banana bread (which as i've said before is really just cake) and a lovely cup of hot tea.


It is a beautiful sun-shiney baby growing day in my world and I hope it is just as lovely in yours!

INTERPRETING MY PEANUT BABY DREAMS

I have had two consecutive dreams that I am giving birth to a very dark haired girl.  The first dream had her being born only five months into the pregnancy, but in some weird link to the Twilight series (which I read but too long ago for them to effect my dreams I would think) the baby is born a toddler.

The second dream was more mundane but a dark brunette just the same.

And so, like all sensible, normal people I decided to interpret my dreams with the use of the ever so handy internet.

Apparently seeing a baby in your dream signifies warmth, innocence and new beginnings. It tells of something in my inner nature that is pure, vulnerable, helpless and uncorrupted.

But then it adds this…if you are pregnant, then a more direct interpretation may simply mean that you are experiencing some anxieties of making it to the hospital when the time comes. 

I think I liked the first definition more.  It’s great, this dream interpreting site, you can interpret anything, they’ve even got a definition for basting meat. Its means you want more pizzazz in your life.

I read on…

If I’d dreamt I was a brunette it would mean either I need to be more down to earth, or it could be symbolic of my sultriness and smoldering sexuality.  (I don’t know if you can relate that to your unborn child and I’m also not sure I want a smoldering newborn).

To see a girl in my dream represents my playful, innocent and childlike nature.  Or it can also represent all the feminine qualities of my character.  That’s a bit ambiguous isn’t it?

By my translation, it seems that my dreams meant a place of warmth and innocence riddled with anxiety and the possibility of a down to earth yet sultry new born.

The internet can be a dangerous place indeed…

TIGHT ARSE BITES ME IN THE ARSE

My husband calls me a tight arse, but I see no need to pay for internet when some generous neighbour nearby has theirs unlocked and I can use it instead.

Only problem is, said generous neighbour has either moved or found me out as we’ve had no internet for the past week or so.  Which means I am forced to go up to our local café, order their fabulous scrambled eggs and sit there to get my work done.  I am considering getting one of those internet sticks but need to do the maths to work out if it’s cheaper to buy eggs and tea every day and treat myself to a change of scenery or stay in the bat cave and work from home.  The former idea has far more appeal…

I tell you this by way of apology for being a little tardy in my postings and responses, I am sorry.

BABY HORMONE MELTDOWN

Yesterday I had a massive, complete, dramatic, traumatic meltdown.  I sobbed enthusiastically, had to wipe my snotty nose on the back of my hand and was so blinded by my tears I couldn’t see where to connect the vacuum tube to the machine as I tried to clean the house.  I wasn’t crying about the cleaning, (though it’s not a task I love) I was crying about my husband’s work hours and how I never see him.  I believe the phrase 1950’s housewife was used, as was ‘feeling forgotten,’ ‘hospitality widow,’ and ‘don’t you like me anymore.’  Even I knew that last one was a bit of a stretch and probably destroyed any credibility I had managed to gain. 

This had been building for weeks, twelve to be precise, (when Gregory started the job) and on his day off, when Gregory was delayed returning from his investigation of his vegetable garden at my parent’s house, leaving me in a café doing work until his return, I fell apart and began my performance which culminated in me sitting on my husband’s lap, tears streaming down my face and wailing; “and I’ve got to vacuum the floor!!!”

Once we’d democratically cleaned the house – me the vacuum, Gregory the mop – we then went on a post-incident walk and talk and I asked Gregory what percentage of today’s meltdown did he think was the result of peanut hormones.
“115%” he replied without hesitating.

So now I don’t know whether to be flattered that he doesn’t think Captain Crazy is my usual state of being, or distressed that he won’t take anything I cried about seriously because he thinks it’s all the result of being under the influence of baby hormones.

Anyone else out there know how I feel? 

THE PEANUT GOES ON LIVE TV

Attached is a pic of me modeling a maternity evening gown on this morning’s Kerri-Anne show.  (Thank you to my Aunt’s friend Karen for recording my moment of glory and taking a pic of the tv with her phone and my aunt sending it on to me, and me now sharing it with you.  Isn’t technology a wonderful, giving, sharing thing?) 

For my American readers, Kerri-Anne is something of an Australian talk-show institution; I think she could possibly have been on air for a good twenty years, and not having seen her in the previous eight, I’d say that with the help of a couple of surgeons, she is managing to look quite the same as she did back then. 

Not that we had anything to do with her this morning when we arrived earlier than someone who stays up till one to try and see their husband should really ever been seen in public.  But the professional hair and makeup stylists took care of that and we were off to try on the outfits.  The other three models were significantly more pregnant than I, but I had done my best by eating a massive bowl of porridge, two pieces of raisin toast and two cups of de-caf tea.  The stylist had a range of outfits, and I have to say, I’m glad now I was as un-pregnant as I was.  One super cute lady was forced into a pair of hot pink stockings, an un-ironed black cowl neck baby doll dress and 4 inch wedge heels a little too big so that she nearly took a dive down the red carpet they rolled out for us on set.  She looked like a drunk pink smurf.  One of the other ladies was in a checkered coat and white pants, which I thought were banned in winter time and the other lady nearly came to blows with the stylist over another pair of death wedges she wanted her to wear.  She was nice to me though, and leant over and touched my nipples every time they popped out while we waited on the freezing set.  This is her third baby, and I think you must lose any sense of propriety by then. 

By the time the stylist got to me, she abandoned the wedge idea entirely, wacked me in the dress you see right here and made a point to announce on television that I was only four months pregnant.  Not only did they pay me of course, but I scored the earrings too.  Which is great as I always admire other people’s big earrings but never buy them for myself.

All in all, an excellent morning’s work I would say.  I stayed on my feet, looked in the camera, didn’t hit the furniture and mad it off set without incident.  A career in maternity modeling is really just around the corner. 

From there, I dashed home, shoved a second breakfast down my throat, grabbed Gregory and headed to the hospital for our first antenatal visit.  We heard the peanut’s heart beat again – 150 beats per minute, which is right on target apparently – and the midwife ssaid that by 26 weeks we might be able to hear it at home with the use of an old toilet roll.     Don’t think we won’t be trying that folks.  I’ll let you know how it goes.                      Gave a bit of blood, had a bit of a check for blood pressure and Gregory was kicked out so the midwife could ask me some personal questions.  The answers to which I’d be willing to expose right here on this blog, (which tells you right now what kind of a Sandra Dee life I’ve had) and when she asked if I’d ever had an STD I answered no and then asked her if I had, would it have effected the baby or the labour.  She replied “typically no, not if it is treated, but a lot of women are unaware they have them and a small percentage of women reply that they think their husband is having an affair, which results in a barrage of tests to determine if any disease has been contracted and if antibiotics are needed for the mother or baby’s care.”  Isn’t that dreadful.  What a horrible reality to be faced with. 

She then told me to replace my recent ice cream habit with yoghurt, (I mean really, yoghurt is for breakfast, ice cream is for late night indulgences, and they are not interchangeable) and we were sent on our merry-not-showing-yet-pregnant-way. 

I had mentioned earlier in this blog (back when it was about running a marathon and not incubating a human) that my American husband was really struggling with Australian ice cream, and I have to concede, he’s right.  It’s rubbish.  I think they use jersey cows with eating disorders.  There is nothing creamy about Australian ice cream.  But last week, Gregory went online, found a Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream supplier, called them, begged then to stay open an extra ten minutes just so he could get there in time and came home with four punnets of one of humankind’s greatest achievements.  Those punnets are no longer with us, but every delectable, delicious bite of Americone Dream and Half-Baked goodness was well worth the outrageous twelve bucks a punnet it cost.

There are a few items I truly miss from the States.  Ice cream (obviously) half and half is another (it is half milk and half cream and can turn a bad 90 cent cup of charred, acrid New York City coffee into a passable tasting beverage) and Wheat Thins are a third.  They are, in terms of reputation and household popularity, like the Australian Jatz.  Everybody knows them, I don’t know a single person who doesn’t like them and you can eat an entire box in one sitting and enjoy every carby, starchy, slightly salty taste.  Peanut butter and Jam is now one of my favourite toppings for toast (though it has to be jam and not that pretend grape jelly they prefer over there) and the iconic green bean casserole served in every American household for Thanksgiving, is truly a pre-packaged marvel.  Frozen beans, a cup of cream of mushroom soup, a packet of fried onions on top and you’ve got one of the tastiest of winter dishes.  Easy to make, cheap too and laden with enough sodium to fill a small ocean.

All this talk of food has me starving…again, seems to be a running theme this week, so I must be off to see what I can find to fill the peanut and me up.  So long blogees, thanks for reading. 

WATCH ME MODEL PREGO CLOTHES ON TV!!!

Don't laugh, but tomorrow I'm going to be on the Kerri-Anne Kennerley Show.

Not only that, but I'm going to be modeling pregnancy clothing.  I am a little concerned by this because, if you'll recall the picture I posted in a previous post, I don't really look pregnant.  I did try to tell them this, but they don't seem concerned.  They seem to think there is a shortage of knocked up broads, which based on who I see walking about my suburb, is hardly the case.

I am going to be booed out of the studio by a bunch of irate morning talk show viewers.

Here I've spent the past seven years trying to get skinnier so I don't lose a role in image obsessed American theatre and now I'm going to go on national television and do everything I can to stick my tummy out further...

Watch me if you're bored.  Sometime between 9 and 10 tomorrow morning on Channel 9.

It's gonna be great!!!

INCUBATING A POLITE CHILD

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THE MAMA TAKES A MOMENT

Today I have had the sort of day that will, in 5 months, no longer be possible.  I was still awake writing at 1.30 last night, awaiting the arrival home of my chef husband.  (I mentioned earlier the types of meals I get to indulge in when he’s not working, but to be clear folks, that is the exception and not the rule.  Typically he works 16-hour days, 6 days a week.  It’s a wonder we managed to conceive this child at all!).  This morning, I waved him off from the front door, still dressed in my bathrobe, and after a couple of hours work, decided to treat myself to a massage. 

Ever since the relaxin went spinning round my pelvis, my body has been a mess.  No sooner does the pain in my hip lessen, than my neck and shoulders get so tight, I have a non-stop headache for ten days straight.  I will concede that running probably doesn’t help this much, but I would have gone to prenatal yoga today but they’ve moved it to 7.45am on a Sunday morning.  Who on earth is going to go in search of their pelvic floor at 7.45 on Sunday morning????  I know once the peanut is here, I’ll probably have already been up for four hours by then, but we’re not there yet.  I will adjust to the new schedule when I don’t have any other choice.

So, off I went to the lovely Thai massage place and spent an hour on my side (the pregnancy approved position for massage) and the headache finally went away.  It’s back now, but I’m ignoring it.  Maybe if I don’t give it any attention, it will take up residence in someone else’s shoulders instead.

I changed out of those weird huge pants they make you wear, and instead of returning home to our dark, cold little bat cave, I strolled down the main street and found a seat at our favourite little local café.  They recognize that the benchmark of a good café is one that serves all day breakfast, and I don’t know what they do to their scrambled eggs, but boy are they ever good. I read the paper, catching up on yesterday’s news, (which – in case you were wondering – is universally depressing) and now I write.  I savour the eggs, sip on my still piping hot tea and while away my time completely uninterrupted. 

This is the sort of afternoon that will (according to friends in the know) cease to exist come November 21^st this year.  And so because of that, I don’t feel guilty, even when I notice it is raining again and I had ambitiously hung out washing this morning in a desperate attempt to clean some socks and undies.  Buggar it.  I’m not running home for that, we can just go commando for a while, and I call the waiter over to order a second pot of tea.

MY AMNIOTIC FLUID SMELLS LIKE CLAMS!!

This is what my online baby email sent to me for week 15…

Rapid growth of your baby continues at this point. The skin is very thin and you can see the blood vessels clearly underneath. The scalp hair pattern is developing while fine hair (called lanugo) covers the baby's body. Your baby is approximately 12-14 cm (3.7 to 4.1 inches) and weighs about 50 grams (1.75 to 2 ounces).
Your baby's taste buds already look like a mature adult's and doctors have learned that the amniotic fluid that surrounds it can smell strongly of curry, cumin, garlic, onion and other essences from a mother's diet. Your baby's bones continue to harden and retain calcium very rapidly. At this point in the pregnancy the placenta will begin to take on the job of hormone production to sustain the pregnancy, which was the job of your ovaries up to this point. Your baby's eyelids are now firmly shut, and will stay closed until the third trimester.

Is that not the craziest thing about the amniotic fluid? 

And I can tell you what mine smells like this morning…fishy.  Last night my chef husband had a miracle night off and made me delicious clam pasta.  I am telling you people, apart from a masseuse who else but a professional chef would you really want to marry?  White wine, (cooked till it was peanut approved), butter (every chef’s favourite ingredient), fresh clams from the fish markets (they close by 4 in case you were wondering.  Gregory and I live on such opposite ends of the clock to most people, we are sometimes completely out of sync with the normal world) and a range of fresh herbs from our (well…Gregory’s) garden and a secret blend of spices.  It was accompanied by fresh sourdough toasted with fresh tomatoes, salt and pecorino cheese and a glass of mineral water touched up with lime ice cubes and some ginger cordial I’ve found to help relieve the boredom of only drinking water now for 4 months straight.

It was so delicious the peanut and I were forced to eat 4 plates of it.  Truly.  Four.  Gregory cooked the entire 500g packet and there wasn’t a string of spaghetti left in sight.

Now, it’s the amniotic fluid that floods out of you when your waters burst right?  No one has ever said to me ‘oh and by the way, watch your diet in your last couple of weeks, you don’t want a stinky amniotic explosion’ but now I’m rather concerned, so for the final couple of weeks of this pregnancy gig, the peanut and I are going to eat fruit, plain bread and steer clear of cheese, meats and eggs.

Since I was so savvy with the picture upload yesterday, I’ll post another one of Gregory’s garden today.  I didn’t take one of the pasta sorry.

BARING THE BELLY!!!

Right, this is a little gutsy for me, but i've been advised to be more 'interactive' with my blog, post pictures, ask questions that sort of thing.  So here goes...i'm posting a picture Gregory took of my tummy at week 15.  I would post the one when we first found out, but for some reason we took it when I was naked and lying down so it looks like a very, very bad amateur porn.  I will spare you such sights.  I don't know why that seemed like a good angle to take it from at the time.  Not much to show for our efforts yet, but lets remember I was training for a marathon and it is my first go at this pregnancy gig.  I'm sure any subsequent peanuts will make their presence felt far sooner!

THE PEANUT SLOWS THE MAMA

I have run my last ten k’s.  Over the last week or two I had started to feel like I was dragging a mac-truck behind me (and not a twelve centimetre foetus) and was somewhat worried a concerned driver was going to pull over and offer me a ride.

So, I’ve dropped back to seven and I can see five happening in the next few weeks or so.  I should go and get back into the swimming pool, but if I think too hard about how much chlorine is in there and how many other bodies and all their body-ness are potentially floating around my own, I get all squeamish.  Back in the day when I did train regularly I remember letting the water flow in and out of my mouth when we were doing our warm-up.  The thought of that is now quite repulsive.  Plus, I hate that you get out and you’re warm, but wet, and then you have to venture out into the cold air and shiver all the way home.  Call me a wuss and you’d be right.  But almost any event can be completely ruined by me being cold, so I try to avoid it at all costs.

So, even though I’m moving at tortoise pace, I’m sticking with the running…at least for now.  I have been very naughty and avoiding baby yoga (I haven’t even been practicing my left nostril breathing, which apparently helps with anxiety and ‘could be the single most helpful thing I learn for my labour’ – which, to be honest, is concerning in itself). 

I now have a little pooch to be proud of.  Doesn’t quite resemble a peanut – or even a baby for that matter – and no one who doesn’t know has come up to me and mentioned the pregnant word, but something is well and truly there, the pants are a little tough to button and I’m starting to fill out my loose tops.  I have to tell you, it is very exciting indeed.