30 WEEKS. The Final Countdown.

That’s it. I am going to print and henceforth wear a t-shirt which says the following:

1. 13th February.
2. No we don’t know what it is (human, hopefully).
3. Yes it’s my first.
4. Can we talk about something else?



Here we are now, 10 weeks to go. I am officially a big, ovoid Pregnant Chick who gets in the way of things and sometimes holds her lower back like you see them do in the movies. And bub is only half grown…. Oh lordy.

Push It. So the whole pregnancy thing is, like, totally passé with us now. The novelty has well and truly worn off, fading away (like oh so many things!) into the hazy, monotonous backdrop of humdrum everydayness. Perhaps that’s a teensy bit melodramatic (my mind is seized by inappropriately poetic imagery at odd times recently), but really, it is ALL about the birth these days. And the baby, obv, but mainly it’s about the birth, the B-word, the Big Push. You may recall that I was a touch cynical about my yogic experiences last trimester, what with the knee-rocking and uterus-hurrahing and what have you. Well, you may now be gratified to know that the new style of yoga I’m doing (for 3rd trimester ladies, preparing us for birth) has humbled me to the point of complete, blind devotion to teacher, fellow students and practice alike. During my yoga-bashing phase I made some throwaway quip about wanting practical advice from yoga, such as how to open your pelvis… well today we actually learned that. No shit. We learned how to open our pelvises an extra thirty-five percent. Now we’re talking! On the down side, our teacher, using a model pelvis and too-realistic newborn doll thing, also very usefully demonstrated how ‘bub’ makes a corkscrew action upon exiting ‘mum’. A. Cork. Screw. Action. I’m not sure I want to do this after all.

She’s Not There. I really didn’t think my Preggo Brain could get much worse, but worsen it has, friends, worsen it has. It is nigh on impossible for me to get through a sentence without using the word ‘thingo’, and ever more frequent are sentences in which I use it twice, eg ‘Did you put the thingo back in the thingo? I can’t find it.’ It’s not only nouns like these either. Thingo for me is also interchangeable with adjectives (‘no need to get all thingo about it’), and I don’t mind mixing it up with a few verbs now and then either (‘Oops! I thingoed on the thingo’). So speech is suffering, badly, but so are most other things. My sense of logic, gone. Just gone. Take, for example, the AFL Grand Final episode. Some of you already know about this particular howler but for those of you who don’t, here is a taster of the kind of havoc my condition occasionally wreaks…

(INT LOUNGE ROOM. D AND B SIT ON COUCH, WATCHING AFL GRAND FINAL 2008)

Commentator: (indecipherable rubbish, sporting clichés)… ‘And there’s dew on the ground, dew is ON the ground!’

Me: ‘So what? Why does he keep yelling about the dew on the ground?’

D: ‘Babe. It’s someone’s name.’

Me: ‘His name is Dew-on-the-ground??? COOL.’

D: (Incredulous stare) ‘Babe. His name is Dew. He is on the ground.’

End scene.

Relax, Don’t Do It. My soon-to-be-parental rant this week is aimed at those cretinous folk who last week managed to get a lollipop man sacked because he was a smoker. Garry McNamara was sacked by Essendon’s St. Theresa School in Melbourne because he refused to give up smoking after parents complained. He said: ‘I used to smoke between eight and 15 of a morning, no one within sight. Definitely no children, I wouldn't smoke in front of children.’ He also said he was ‘devastated’ by his sacking; ‘I miss the kids more than anything,’ he said. Now. Garry had been a lollipop man for 15 years, and is an elderly grandfather who has smoked for 50 years. For christ’s sake, let the man smoke already. Who CARES? Who are these people whose lives are so empty and sad they feel moved to complain about an old man who smokes the odd ciggie in the morning? And who could be mean to a man who uses the term ‘of a morning’? It’s downright un-Australian. One reader’s letter in response to this story, by one Roger Mathews-Brown (double-barrelled surname, wouldn’t you know it) read: ‘Guess he likes smoking more than his job.’ Oh my GOD Roger, you sad bastard. Do you look and sound like Alexander Downer? Because that is how I picture your smug, pudgy little face in my mind. Before I punch it.

(Aaaaand, end rant).

Brave New World. So obviously the most exciting thing that has happened, world-wise, since my last entry is that Barack Obama has won the US election. Everyone knows how significant and amazing and uplifting and just ACE that is so I won’t bang on about it… but seriously, isn’t it awesome? I feel so privileged to have been witness to the event, and delighted that I’ll be able to tell The Child one day about the momentous day that occurred when he was in utero. You know, it really does make me feel that bit better about bringing a child into the world. Of course I got on my high horse not 6 hours after Obama’s victory was announced, and felt compelled to write a letter to the Herald, which to my surprise they duly published the next day. Yay me. There is nothing a ranter like myself likes more than public acknowledgment of said ranting.


Going To The Chapel …And the most exciting thing that has happened, Bowen Terrace-wise, since my last entry is that D and I got engaged. Hardly bombshell news, given the 7-month-old bump, but exciting and rather lovely nonetheless. I suppose he thought it was time to make an honest woman of me (pah!) We are thinking a year or so’s time, giving us time to, like, have a child and all that. Then again, I don’t mind the thought of waddling down the aisle for a shotgun wedding. There are some lovely things you can do with wedding frocks and baby bumps these days. I’ve had a look around, and I particularly like the look of the dress below. Elegant. Timeless.








Rightio, I’m off to thingo the thingo now. Take care y’all!

24 weeks. Reality Bites.

It is truly scary just how fast the weeks are flying by now. Since hitting the halfway mark the days have literally been whizzing past, so that it now feels as though we’re having breakfast every fifteen minutes.



You’re So Vain. So here’s the thing. D and I are going to be parents, and pretty soon. This changes the way I see parenting, as it’s administered by others, to their own offspring. I don’t mean I judge them on their parenting techniques… oh who am I kidding, that’s like starting a sentence with ‘I’m not a racist, but…’. Judge them is exactly what I do, and with gusto! BUT, I’m not dense enough to think that this won’t all change once I am a parental unit myself (just noticed ‘parental’ is an anagram of ‘prenatal’ – AMAZING huh). I realize that all my highfalutin and idealistic views on modern parenting will be put to the ultimate test once this happens. And yet, and yet… judge them I do. There are a few obvious and boring things I’ve noticed and tut-tutted about in this regard, and then there are the less obvious. Exhibit A: Parents whose cars (invariably 4WDs) have a sticker bearing the name of their child’s private school on the back windscreen. There are so many things wrong with this that I don’t know where to start. What in god’s name kind of message are you trying to project by letting the world now that your precious Tarquin goes to an expensive school? Is it about the school itself, or is it just so we all know you have enough coin lying around that this is not a problem for you? Who do you think you are, Gordon Gekko? Someone should have a little word with these nouveau-riche maniacs and remind them that ‘old money whispers, new money shouts’ (and then beat them repeatedly about the head with stats on child poverty and mortality rates in Australia).

Love Hurts. I am now quite resigned to the fact that I will in fact be present at the birth of the baby (my baby I mean). Not only that, but it seems I’m also expected to be quite involved in the whole process, and I’ve also heard unconfirmed rumours it might be a little taxing, with some pain involved. As such, I have started thinking about the almighty Birth Plan (when I say I’ve started thinking about it I mean that’s literally all I’ve done, is think about it). Golly, there are a lot of things to be considered. The main thing is I suppose the whole pain management / intervention / natural v. drugs / midwife v. obstetrician process. These are the issues that really divide. I’m still a little unclear about the details on all of this, though it does seem that there is somewhat of a stigma attached to opting for, say, an epidural during labour as opposed to white-knuckling it all the way. I’m of the opinion that every woman’s experience is different and no one should be judged for their pain management plan during labour (and I have to admit, there is a part of me thinking ‘what’s the bloody use of modern buggery medicine if it can’t help me through this particularly ouchy episode?’… and I can’t believe I just used the term ‘particularly ouchy’ to describe childbirth. I’ll be lynched, and rightly so). Obviously I have no idea what things will be like once I‘m in the hot seat myself, but if I do make it through a natural birth I certainly will not be bragging about my accomplishment. Natural birth, it seems to me, is a wonderful thing to experience if it works out that way for you. If it doesn’t, what’s the problem? Who are we to judge what anyone else opts for in such an intensely personal moment? Aaaaaaaand, end rant.


Two Fat Ladies. Picture it: I’m sitting in the waiting room of the Maternity Outpatients dept at the hospital, with approximately 678,000 other pregnant women, waiting to be seen be O Holy Obstetrician (until yesterday I had no confirmation the Almighty Ob actually existed, and upon entering her office I half expected to find a shriveled old man stationed behind a big billowy curtain speaking into a voice machine, a la Wizard of Oz). Anyway. A heavily pregnant woman sat next to me in the waiting room; just annoyed me from the get-go. Did absolutely nothing to me, didn’t utter a word, just annoyed the hell out of me for some reason. I sensed she was the type who really, really wanted to talk to strangers about the details of her no doubt complicated and really rather special pregnancy. Clearing her throat, sighing, trying to catch my eye, you know what I mean. Luckily for me another heavily pregnant annoying woman came and sat next to her presently, and unsurprisingly the two hit it off. No sooner had Annoying Woman 2 opened her mouth (always the same preggo pick-up line ‘how far along are you?’ or ‘Is it your first?’ No time for niceties ladies!) than Annoying Woman 1 launched into a detailed account of just why it is she needs a C-section ‘this time round’ (her fourth time round, as it happens)… I’m not exaggerating when I say she included every possible detail in her account… blood clots, sutures, bowel movements, the lot. It was at this point that I consciously tuned out of their conversation and into the dreamy, mind-numbing world of New Weekly. The next time I became aware of their annoyingness the conversation had turned to breastfeeding. Now. Far be it from me to enter into any kind of debate regarding breast v bottle and the plethora of issues that surround said debate… I don’t have the time or the inclination. However, let it be said that I for one am very much a pro-breaster, for a whooooole bunch of reasons. That being said, I wouldn’t want to judge another woman’s choice on the matter (I think we’ve established fairly well that I do not like to judge others, oh no…). THAT being said, I think you’d want to have a reason for going the bottle, if you were to do so, that extends beyond simply not really being arsed to breastfeed. Which brings me back to Annoying Women. And I quote:
AW1: Oh I knowwwww, I know…. They really push the breast here don’t they? On at you as soon as they’re born to breastfeed…
AW2: None of mine were breastfed, and this one won’t be either. They’re all fine… I mean, once you start them on the breast they’re allllllways on the bloody breast! Such a hassle.
AW1: Oh look I know, and the thing is, at the end of the day, you have to do what is the easiest thing for you. Breastfeeding is such a pain.

I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about that one. I managed to bite my tongue, though several vague comments relating to the irony of cows not wanting to utilize udders as they were intended etc did cross my mind.
.


Rightio. I’d best get back to today’s research. We’ve started reading Robin Barker’s Baby Love, which is just ace. Daunting, but ace. Barker encourages the new parent to ‘learn to live with fatigue’ (duh) and poses a series of questions for us to ask ourselves, such as ‘How will you feel when faced with a sleepless baby and incessant crying?’ (easy, shithouse) and ‘As the mother, how will you tell your partner when you want him to do something?’ (probably by shouting at him). Unfortunately the book doesn’t broach other useful questions such as ‘So what the hell have we gotten ourselves into here?’ and ‘Christ almighty, are we really ready to be parents?’…

And so until next time, yours in gestation, Egg-like x

21 Weeks. A Farewell to Qualms.

Past the half way mark. Hard to believe it’s already come around. This means that in just over 4 months I will, whether I like it or not, be a mother. Christ on a bike.









Do you see what I see? Here, look. That’s a bump. Shoosh, yes it is, it’s a bonafide baby bump. Everybody warns you time and time again that your belly will just magically pop out one day, but it still doesn’t prepare you for the fact that your belly just magically pops out one day. Responses to said belly vary. Mostly it’s lovely, largely squeal-based exclamations in the higher registers that I get in response to my new fuller figure, but some people seem oddly put out by it. It’s a strange thing. I’ve been approached several times by colleagues I barely know, sporting wounded looks and saying things like ‘I had no idea…’ or, even better, ‘when did that happen?’ (Good bloody question mate!) One charming woman I had never before spoken to came up to me in class last week, poked (poked!) my belly and said ‘baby!’ What do you say to that? Naturally I’ve thought of thousands of utterly devastating comebacks since then, but at the time I was so stunned I just sort of looked at her. Lots of people opt for the simple ‘when are you due?’ of course, though I myself have always avoided this particular question, landing one as it can and occasionally does in extremely hot water… you just can’t ever be sure (at a wedding recently someone asked me same, and I replied ‘Hmmm? Oh, I’m not pregnant.’ Cruel? Maybe. In bad taste? Oh dear lord yes, but I just had to do it. The look on her face was pretty unforgettable, let me tell you, though I of course came clean immediately).

Movin' and shakin'. The most exciting thing that’s happened in the last while, baby-wise, is that I can feel bub move now, and move he most certainly does. I first felt his fluttery little twitching whilst lying in the bath (as opposed to standing up in the bath?), having just scoffed a large and rather tasty chocolat au pain (sounds so much better than chocolate croissant). Since then I’ve felt him more and more regularly, and now I feel him every day at certain times (and before you jump to any conclusions we just call him ‘him’ cos it’s easier and nicer than ‘it’ and because I’m opposed to using politically correct terms, which in this case would be ‘she’). We recently had our 20 weeks scans to check for all sorts of things we hadn’t really thought about; heart chambers, kidney function, hare lip and club feet (obviously you want the first two to be present and active, the second two not so much). They showed us that 3D Foetus-cam thing which was pretty amazing and kind of weird at the same time. Radiographer reckons his head’s quite big. Oh, awesome.

Everybody’s doing it. We’re all booked in and up to date and ready to go with our midwifery malarkey and hospital rigmarole now. Apparently it isn’t our imagination and there really is a baby boom happening, and what’s more our midwife Cath reckons we’re bloody lucky ours is due in Feb and not December as they’re kind of fully booked for peak season. Just think, in the future we’ll all be able to say we had our babies on the eve of global economic collapse, awww!

Where the Wild Things Are. My mood swings have definitely calmed down a hell of a lot. in fact, I feel pretty bloody normal. Actually I feel completely, 100% normal, as normal as I did before I was knocked up, and don’t really feel ‘preggers’ as such at all anymore– a fact belied by my girth and, you know, seeing it on a screen and all that. D and I were recently reminiscing fondly (ha!) about back in the day when I was (more of) a snarling medusa. We’d been going back through all my old sent text messages to D from during this time and oh how we laughed! (actually D was rocking back and forth on the floor in the corner and crying, but anyway). Golly. What a complete psycho I was. Up and down like a whore’s drawers! One message in particular is so hilariously nutty that I feel I must share it with you, albeit at great embarrassment to myself. I have no idea what we had been arguing about at this point, it doesn’t matter now and probably didn’t then, but whatever it was I had clearly felt the pressing need to send D a comprehensive dissertation on his shortcomings, whilst channeling Dr. Phil, via SMS. I'm thinking there had also been some dinner plans chat somewhere along the way, god only knows. Anyway here it is, just for you, unedited and verbatim:

'I want us to get along, but I just can’t deal with whitewashing issues to get along. If we don’t communicate things will fester and build up and make things between us extremely tense and touchy and just unbearable. I really need to be able to talk to you about stuff, even if it’s negative stuff. It’s good to let things go, but it’s also important to acknowledge concerns, problems etc. I’ve just been so stressed lately, and I think we can do better. Think I’ll grab a cucumber.’

Think I’ll grab a cucumber. Rightio.

There’s not a great deal more to report right now, except I began my prenatal yoga classes last night. Meh. It was ok. I’ve been yogaing for a long long time and so found the imposed limitations a bit frustrating, but I was expecting that. I was also expecting a bit of nafness, and nafness there was my friends, nafness there was… I really hate to sound cynical (that’s actually a lie, I don’t care how cynical I sound), and I did enjoy the class, and I will of course keep attending regularly, but ‘celebrate your beautiful uterus’? Woman, please! We also had to do a bizarre holding-of-one’s own leg move that involves cradling your own knee and rocking it back and forth whilst simultaneously chanting the hysterically unimaginative mantra ‘baaaaaaaa-byyyyyyyy’ over and over. No one can do this exercise and not feel absolutely ridiculous. Aaaaanyway, yes I know, it has its place and it’s all for the greater good, and to be fair the meditation bit was pretty good, as were some of the ‘endurance’, pain-overcoming exercises and what have you… I suppose I was just hoping for more practical advice, like how to open your pelvis 1.5 metres wide, or how to paralyse yourself from the waist down using simple breathing techniques, but there you go.

D and I are off on some well-earned hols now, and so til next time y’all!

PS – Here is a piccie of how we think our baby might look, with its winning combination of Doyle-Hunt genes…

15 weeks

So, second trimester, here I am! Where are all those goodies you promised me? Just get through first trimester, you said, and then it’s smooth sailing all the way. I know it seems hard now, you assured me, but things will get SO much better in phase 2, trust me. You strung me along, you cad. You lied.

Hell hath no fury like a pregnant woman duped.

Oh ok, it’s not all that bad. It must be said that I am no longer nauseated by odd things (just the usual things – my reflection, screaming babies), and the teenage acne has abated. Physically, my body seems to have just decided to put its feet up and chill on out a bit, which makes a nice change. It’s good to be eating everything again (and I do mean everything), and I am ridiculously, disproportionately thankful for experiencing a slight resurgence in energy.













Here’s my bump. I don’t know about you, but D and I have been having quite a time deciding whether it’s a bump at all. We’ve been scrutinizing my belly every morning, me turning this way and that and prodding it with various things, without ever reaching a conclusion. However, in the last 3 days it seems to have become an actual bump. It just sort of popped out a bit, which is kind of nice. Most people still probably wouldn’t notice, and might just think I’ve let myself go a bit, but it’s extremely noticeable for me and I’m constantly aware of it. The starting-to-show date seems to vary wildly among different women… three of my friends started showing around 12 – 13 weeks while another has only really just started, and she’s around 20 weeks. Anyway, everyone assures me I will indeed eventually have a big enough bump and several particularly wise souls urge me to enjoy the mobility while I have it.

All the books warn the pregnant reader that once your with-child status is publicly known (either through word of mouth or physical evidence) you’ll constantly be fielding unwanted, unsolicited advice from all and sundry on a) pregnancy and b) child-rearing. I’m lucky enough to not have any such busy-bodies hanging about, and all the advice I get from those close to me is sound, and greatly appreciated. However. I have noticed a disturbing trend among women (and some men) I really don’t know all that well, which involves the highly graphic and drawn-out recounting of a friend / partner’s horrific 274-hour labour involving 756,344 stitches and countless problems which evidently occurred because the poor woman was ‘about your size’ (i.e. my size, which is to say on the small side). Well thank you very bloody much indeed, but I do think it’s within the realm of possibility that smallish women have given normal, non-horrific birth in the past. Not only is this sort of fantastically insensitive advice perturbing (of course you can’t help but dwell on those gory details), it is also utterly rage-inducing. On this matter, What To Expect When You’re Expecting advises the expecting lady thusly: ‘Don’t let unwanted advice get your dander up.’ Um, ok, I won’t. (What the hell is a dander, and what happens when it gets up??). Up The Duff advises you meet the advice with a distant stare and vacant smile, which is slightly more effective. I prefer vigorous physical violence, which has numerous added benefits such as cardiovascular exercise (good for mums and bubs!).

Apparently the bub is around 10cm long or so now, and weighs 80 grams, which doesn’t mean all that much to me (80 grams is a shitload of some things, and very little of others, wouldn’t you agree?). What To Expect and several other books attempt to make yours / baby’s changing weight more relevant by likening your growing uterus size to pieces of fruit… which is useful, but decidedly odd (having said that, it’s hard to think of anything more appropriate to compare it to… Marsupials? Whitegoods?). I’m half way between a grapefruit and a small melon apparently, so there you go

Cry me a river? Build me an ark! Weepiness…. Oh lord, the tears I’ve cried! I’ve always been a crier, it must be said, but I mean seriously. These days I will literally cry at the drop of a hat... I can inject pathos into anything, and I do, and the result is an extremely messy blubbering mess, a lot of the time. Happy things make me cry, sad things make me cry, funny things make me cry. It’s embarrassing, awkward for those around me, and completely uncontrollable. Sick kids / animals, forget it. Someone does something nice for me (like smile in my general direction), it’s all over. The washing machine stops working, I go to pieces. I am sincerely hoping this particular symptom takes leave of me soon, as it’s really rather inconvenient, striking at any time and generally hanging around a lot longer than is socially acceptable.

A rose by any other name is still a rose, sure, but a young girl named Garnet is the daughter of a very messed up woman. I encountered said girl / mother combo at the park the other day and proceeded to watch, mouth agape, as mumsy hollered after her dear little one, named not after a jewel but after a semi-precious and not particularly lovely stone. What on earth possesses some people? Did she think Ruby was too obvious? Did it have to be a gem of some sort? Why? Which is really my long-winded way of saying that D and I are up to choosing names, which is lots of fun, though paradoxically there seem to be very few good names (that aren’t taken) out there. (There apparently exists a ‘New Age Names’ book, which I just have to get my hands on for a laugh). Luckily, we tend to agree on our top 4 or 5, which is ace, though I am sure things will change and anyway, we’ll have to meet him/her before we can make a proper decision on his/her lifelong label. Anyhoo, after much agonizing, our shortlist so far: Adolf, Genghis, Digger, Strelizia, Foofoo and Petunia. All suggestions welcome!

12 Weeks

So I’ve started a blog. Woohoo. While this is in effect a pregnancy blog, it is not to be confused with a ‘pregnancy blog’. By that I mean I will not be recording fascinating weekly insights into my digestive system, swapping handy high-fibre diet hints or debating the various pros and cons of breast v. bottle (though breast is best, as any fule kno). These things are of course all very worthy of heated and lengthy discussion, but frankly a bit dull for those of us who are not presently knocked up. And I give you my word that you will not read the words ‘fundus’, ‘mucus’ or ‘discharge’ on these pages; not once, not ever, so help me.

Here’s me now. I haven’t gained any weight yet which is a bit unusual, in a bloody fantastic kind of way. There’s a small bump there, but that’s bloat.


12 weeks down…

So, first trimester. Thank CHRIST that’s over. Things are back to being quasi-normal in our nest, after what can only be described as a prize cunt of a time. Finding out we were pregnant was fun of course, though D was a tad unprepared - I sprung it on him while he was washing up and really quite annoyed (I have never in my life known a male who is not annoyed whilst washing up). For a day we were all high and warm-fuzzied and amazed at ourselves, which was nice. If only we’d known how good we had it that day.

If you are not and have not been pregnant, don’t ever let anyone tell you first trimester is ‘fun’ (or worse, ‘magical’). It’s not. It’s foul. Firstly, the moodiness. Oh lordy, the moodiness… Unlike PMT, where your irrational weepiness / anger / lethargy is easily identifiable and therefore able to be put aside somewhat, pregnancy moods are literally like being possessed. You deeply, truly believe in your moods, and act accordingly. I have been so angry at certain times that my heart rate has started racing and I can hear my own blood pumping in my ears. As Ms. J said to me, it’s like you’re trapped inside yourself – you know you’re being evil, but there’s nothing you can do about it. My advice to anyone new to the preggers game is to just go with it, and don’t think you need to be all ‘hail-me-and-my-innate-nature-mother-goddess-within’ about it. If you feel shit, you feel shit. Go to bed with a good book.

Something a lot of the books and whatnot tend to skip over is the initial shock of a lifestyle shift. And I don’t mean giving up fags and drinking exactly (though that’s not a walk in the park either, frankly). I was unprepared for the sense of loss I experienced for a couple of weeks in the very beginning… it’s hard to put my finger on exactly what I mean by ‘loss’, but it very much felt like I was leaving a large part of my life behind, and that some significant things in my life had come to an end. I guess it’s to do with becoming a mother, the looker-afterer, and the leaving behind of the last vestiges of hedonistic youth (I have a deep and pathological fear that once bub comes I will just –poof! – turn into a MUM, wearing too-high mum jeans and saying things like ‘Oh and I suppose Mr. Nobody took it, did he?’). Obviously, this does not mean I resented or regretted being pregnant – au contraire! - but the two feelings, joy and loss, co-existed in equal parts for a time, and that was pretty overwhelming (at these times I could’ve murdered a few ciggies and glass or 3 of wine, let me tell you).

Then there’s the sickness. Mine was quite bad, and struck while I was in the middle of a 6-week teaching prac. I don’t believe there is any environment more suited to inducing ‘morning’ sickness than a large primary school. That coupled with the psychotic moodiness made for some pretty interesting teaching experiences. Several times I burst into tears spontaneously, experiencing a rush of heart-cockles-being-warmed (some little tacker running his heart out in an athletics race, for example) and at others I could quite literally have back-handed one of the little effers across their smart little face without thinking twice (luckily, common sense prevailed). The sickness meant I quite literally could only eat fruit and cheese sambos at this stage, and anything more exotic than that made me retch violently. And believe me, kids eat wayyyy more exotic things than that.

I promised I would not talk digestion, and I won’t, except to say that the expulsion of waste from my body became a temperamental business ( lots of one, none of the other – pregnant women know what I mean). Boobs, much bigger. Skin, acne-prone. Dizzy spells. Exhaustion: That was probably the hardest bit. Ms. L, who is also currently up duff, was so exhausted through her first trimester recently that during her workday she would nip into the toilets to rest her poor weary head on the toilet roll holder for a few minutes several times a day. It’s a glamorous business, pregnancy.

This is getting dangerously close to the ‘pregnancy blog’ side of things, so I’ll get her back on course and wrap her up. Pregnancy books. Very handy, naturally. Everyone in the whole entire world who has ever had a baby has What To Expect When You’re Expecting. I do too. It’s a great book, full of sound information and advice. I only have two problems with it. One is the constant referring to ‘your husband’ (blergh), and the other is the front cover. To wit:


Doesn't she just look like a barrel of laughs? Though to be fair, this image probably freaked me out more than it should have, as at this point in my pregnancy I was feeling less like that, and more like this:

I also have Kaz Cooke’s Up The Duff which is good – irreverent, funny, more realistic and all that, though a tad too cool for school if you ask me (never happy, am I?)

Apart from that I am not allowed to eat anything that I like or that I might accidentally enjoy, I have the mental computation rate of a single cell organism, and have just embarked on the great Hospital / Midwife Choosing Adventure which has already had me in tears twice, and which last week resulted in a bitchy battle of wills with a sour, nasal-voiced woman named Janette (it was over the phone, but I just know she wore those stupid bangle things that hold your sleeves up, and had glasses with a jeweled neck strap).

But of course it’s not all bad… all my nasty bastard first trimester symptoms just disappeared overnight last week, just like that. This of course sent us into a tailspin, convinced as I was that something terrible had happened, and we rushed off for an emergency ‘reassurance’ scan. Everything was fine of course, and seeing the little grub’s heart beating furiously away, its funny wriggly movements and its tiny little face was pretty bloody awesome indeed (even maybe magical). And here's a lovely photo of the happy couple...