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.
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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