today

I'm ten weeks pregnant, and bugalugs is almost an inch and a half tall (just like its father *ahem* ), and is weighing in at around five grams. Obviously, the giganticness of this beast explains my rapidly expanding waist measurments.....

It suddenly looks like a real human, albeit one with a really big head (which is again, not unlike its father *ahem*), and I cannot believe one of the above is growing inside of me.

Freak-ay.

I must have kicked a lot of kittens in my last life

Continuing the theme of how goddamn lucky I am, I spent an hour and half today, wading knee deep in dates and facts and times, and fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck in a lawyers' office.

A bit of history: A year or so ago, I spent a short time volunteering (volunteering, take note, this is an important detail) at Stef's soccer club. Through him, I know some of the other guys, and through them, I knew they wanted someone to do basic strapping, taping and minor first aid. I know how to tape, and as I was studying both to be a personal trainer and a Bowen therapist, this was a good way to gain a bit of confidence, get my Bowen hours up, and ultimately gain some experience, so I put my hand up to do their taping, if I could use their players for my Bowen.

You'd think I was applying for a paid job as Master of the Universe, rather than for a volunteer position with an amateur league soccer club, but they took me on and, theoretically at least, everyone was happy.

Except not everyone was.

Havng heard I got the job, Stef totally lost his shit on me. The amusing thing is that I stuck at it and went through the ridiculous interview process, because he'd told me I wasn't allowed to do it (red flag + bull, anyone?), or something equally as juvenile. Obviously, given that directive, I made sure I got the damn job. Ultimately, the experience blew, as several of the bumfucking dimwits with no independent thought processes took Stef's 'side', which resulted in an animosity so tangible, you could spread it on bread and eat it for dinner with gravy - and that was before the shit hit the fan.

In all honesty, while the blowing was of monumental proportions, a lot of good came from my time there. Going through the rigmarole with that bunch of circus freaks made me realise I really am quite gutsy, so I used their club as a springboard for my next, and went to a women's football club to offer my services. They welcomed me aboard, and that position led to work as a volunteer trainer and Bowen practitioner with a Rugby club, and that gave me the confidence to re-enter the paid workforce, and into my chosen career.

But I digress...

Long story short: One night at soccer, dude approached me complaining of a pulled hamstring. I offered him Bowen, he was all 'Yay!', and everythng was dandy until he asked for an ice pack. I gave it to him, and homeboy sat on the damn thing for at least an hour, gave himself frostbite, and now he's suing.

The club's insurance covers their butts, and will pay out once they've gone through all the bullshit one goes through when one is sued. Insurance companies don't just hand over money for no reason though, not when they can find someone outside the terms of the policy, or who acted negligently, thus negating their contract with the insurance company. While I'm not actually liable, and nor did I act negligently or outside my duty of care, the insurance company will likely see things differently. If they do, they'll instruct the same lawyers I met with today to sue me to recover their loss, and then I'll need to prove legally that I wasn't negligent.

The lawyers today advised me there was a good chance I'll be sued. They also advised me to contact my insurance company* so they can pay back the more than a quarter of a million homeboy is asking for in damages, on my behalf.



*yeah, like I keep one of those on the top shelf for such an occasion.

muckinfruckinshitpoobugger

I effectively lost five hundred bucks last night.

Chris and I went to the local club and played a few games of Keno. I'm not much of a gambler, so while Chris racked up ten games of Spot 8, I modestly played only five games of Spot 5. I didn't choose my own numbers, rather, I let the computerr generate my numbrers for me, using the easypick system. Those numbers didn't give me any joy, but it was a cheap thrill for twenty five minutes. Then the sixth game was played, and all of my numbers came up, except being the sixth game, I wasn't in it!

Fuck me up a tree and back. God. ::madface::

I miss my brain.

I was once a prolific philosopher, musing on the intricacies of life, the universe and everything, and now? Now I write about my boobs.

Good grief.

a title eludes me

As time passes, more people at work are finding out I'm pregnant. It was hard saying nothing during my Chase The Mailman Down The Street To Tell Him My News phase, which I'm out of now, almost, but now I'm into my glowing madonna Guess What? I Have A Secret - And I'm Gonna Tell You What It Is Right Now! phase (which hardly makes it a secret, but it caters to my guilt. Yep, I've still got this ridculous guilt thing about telling people. If I was going to be petty and victimised, I'd blame the guilt factor on the father's reticence to have my pregnancy recognised, and his 'you're blabbing to everyone' comment probably didn't help either, but I'm not petty and victimised, so I won't. Ahem) so my pregnancy belongs to everyone, tra la.

As do my norks.

As I work and train in a gym, my standard attire is skimpy tank tops and singlets - not because I'm a harlot, mind, but because the dumbfuck bosses won't fix the damn airconditioning and I would DIE out there is I wasn't half naked. Anyway, what with the itty bitty tops, and the spilling out over the top of three (three!) bras, my boobs are kind of hard to miss. And anyway, I'm all about 'Fine thanks, and cop these!' when someone asks how I'm feeling.

What was once a pair of neat A cups transformed overnight into a pair of absolute bazookas. I just peaked down my t-shirt, and I'd say we're now looking at a set of modest C cups - and this is where it gets interesting. They're still perky. Yessiree, I have the ta-tas of a teenager, the nips of a nubile, and the bodacious boobs of a babe. It's a pity I'm not really that into these whoppers, because they really are quite spectacular.

And just so today's entire entry isn't all about my chest, we got our first ever and as a cute as fuck onsie the other day, from one of my clients. She also became a grandmother for the fifth time last week, so congratulations Roslyn, and welcome to the world, Christopher Michael. *waves*

baby, baby

Today, I'm nine weeks and one day pregnant, my embryo is now a foetus, and it began having brainwaves on Monday. And there I was thinking it was indigestion....

It's around an inch long, with a real neck and actual fingers. It looks so much more human now than it did a week ago, and it's already beginning to look like itself. I love thinking about how this blend of two is creating someone unique, and it delights me to wonder just how much of me I'll recognise when we finally meet.

On the one hand, I can't wait for that day, and on the other, I want this time to last forever. I know I'll be singing a different tune when I'm the size of a whale and as uncomfortable as fuck, but for now, this creating life gig is something so wonderful it defies description.

You know, I'm looking at my thumb tip right now, and I still can't believe there's a little person of just that size, hiding away in there.

class interaction time

Some of you had questions, so:

This is a baby capsule.

It's a carrier to keep the baby safe while driving. The capsule itself is removable, and works with a holder type thingy that's fitted in your car. The capsule is removable, so you can walk around with the baby as if it were the eggs, milk and bread you'd just put in your shopping basket. They're required by law here, and available for hire from the Red Cross for around fifty bucks, and that includes installation.

And this

is a BabyBjorn. They're good for teeny babies because they find it soothing to be so close to mum (or dad), so it'll be really handy both at home and when out. They're good for older kids too, when you turn them around so they can see the sights, and still close to mum or dad. See?

(let's see how many of you recognise these two)

half empty glasses

The scan on Friday went well, and I'm even more in love with my doctor than I was before. When he walked in, in lieu of a hello, I offered up my apologies. He was all '..the hell?' and I was all blushing and guilty and 'for getting pregnant, oops'. He joked about claiming this baby as the unit's own anyway, and I, in all seriousness, agreed. That place gave me hope when I had none, and without hope, maybe this new life would never have happened. Marc asked me to keep in contact with them all, and to make sure to bring blobby in for a visit once it's less blobby and more baby. Everyone has looked after me so well. They were always kind and patient and understanding - and even more so on the day I was emotional and unreasonable (and ovulating and conceiving that very moment, so no wonder I was a tad flighty, eh?), and I don't want to leave the safe place they made for me under their wing.

They also gave me a 'starter pack' for new mums. Among other things, it contained magazines, brochures, and samples. It took me two days, but having opened it and having read the parenting magazines, seen the samples of maternity pads (ick), antacids, incontinence pads (oiks!) and foot gels for pregnant women, it hit me.

I'm really one of them.

So much for that serene, madonna-like bubble I've been living in this past week. It took me a day or three, but I've been crying myself to sleep and wondering what on earth I'm going to do and how I'm going to do it.

You'd think I'd have thought about all this already, but while I planned on IVF, I didn't plan on being pregnant or even having a baby. Not that I don't want one, but I never thought IVF would work, ferpetesake.

Uh, does that make sense? I swear, this being pregnant gig? I miss my brain.

Anyway, that I am pregnant is freaking my socks off.

That the father has, for all intents and purposes, abandoned his child, and me for that matter, pisses me off. To clarify though, I don't feel all sad and abandoned and woe is me, because I don't want him near us right now anyway. We'll need to forge some kind of relationship because of the children involved, but dang, if he didn't already have a daughter who will be my kid's sister, fuck him and the horse he rode in on. Hrmmph.

Now, where was I?

Oh, yeah.

I'm tired, I guess. Money is scaring the living shit out of me, and I'm scared of how much longer I can (or can't) continue to work.

I'm scared of how much there is to be done, and it all boils down to finances. Some things need doing before the baby is born, big things like selling my car to buy another, ripping up this shitty carpet and replacing it with something less toxic, and even if I don't make up the baby's room, the baby needs space in my room. Over the next several months, I need to organise other smaller things too, like clothes, baths, washcloths, cribs, stuff, stuff, more stuff and fuck knows what else babies need. (a competant mother, maybe?) Then by, say, Spring next year, I'd like to have put a contract out on the father made my backyard less of a dump...I know it's all slowly, slowly, but right now and in my head, it all feels so urgent, and despite feeling there's so much to do, I'm not doing anything.

Go me. *rolls eyes*

germs

You know what really annoys me? People who have a cold and who are intent on going public and sharing the joy, when what they should do is stay home and infect only their nearest and dearest.

Take today for instance. I'd just run my second class and was chatting to one of the regulars when she sneezed (ugh), blew her nose, wiped her eyes and then balefully looked at me as she moaned 'I probably shouldn't have come today becuase I'm getting a cold'.

No shit, Sherlock.

I think she wanted me to call her a poor thing and then compliment her on her dedication to her sport. Well fuck that. I agreed with her instead, and blithely sailed forth, stating that if I get a cold, I stay home because I'm not a selfish cow with no regard for humanity, as demonstrated by my lack of concern at the spread of infectious diseases. Okay, so I didn't say that last bit about being a selfish cow, but I thought it SO hard, she had to know I thought she was one.

weee!

It's in there and I saw it. My miracle baby is the most beautiful blobby thing, ever. It's 19.4mm long, and eight weeks and three days old, and is due two days after Christmas.

I was all 'That's its head, right?' and Marc was all 'Uh, no, it's not. That's it there, at the other end...'.

Oops.

The heartbeat sounded so sweet and so strong and so amazing.

My child.

We made a life and now, I'm making a family.

standby

My first scan is in forty minutes, and I'm vaccillating between 'eek!' and 'weee!'.

Remember that bullshit about it being a woman's perogative to change her mind? Yeah, well it's making me seasick.

doo doo do doo

Usually I drop into the shops in the evening, but today I made the (almost fatal) mistake of going at 11am when, rather than going to the mall, I entered the twilight zone. There were old people everywhere, and they all were swarming like ants at a picnic. I counted at least twenty million of them pushing their way through the entrance to the supermarket, and at least twenty million more falling out of the exit doors and back into the mall.

Then it dawned on me. Pension day.

Someone needs to tell these people realise that shopping for food isn't a competition, and that the person who grabs the last All-Bran from the shelf isn't the winner, you don't need to push me out of the way, because there are a shit load (no pun intended) more boxes of the stuff in the store room out back.

I'm not going to apologise for what comes next because I'm going to be old one day, and I bet some young whippersnapper is going to bitch about me then too, in which case, I'll get mine eventually, so pthhhh.

While I appreciate that the geriatric contingent among us fought for our country, I don't appreciate it when that same contingent runs right over my toes with their shopping trolleys while stampeding the cereal aisle. This is not a competition etc, and I'm not an opponent. God.

Secondly, running the same damn trolley into the back of my ankles is NOT going to make the checkout queue go any faster. Thankyou. Also, it may have been a while ago, but didn't your mother teach you it was rude to push in?

One would assume that, having escaped the store, the nightmare was over. Wrong. The car park was even worse because instead of pushing trolleys, they were driving (and I use the term loosely) cars, and usually oversized ones.

Is there a direct relationship between age and car size? Because instead of parking their moderately sized family vehicles, they all appeared to be berthing the QEII.

Speaking of cars, what is it with the white bowling hat and requisite box of Kleenex in the back window? And what is it with age and engine size? Turn 78, get a V8?

In other news, I'm tired and I need to nap, so, the end.

that do goody good bullshit

Money.

Because of the (pausing for dramatic effect) anorexia that literally almost stole my life over many, many years (thankyou, I'll be here all week), my work history is patchy at best, and being pregnant, the work I do now isn't really something I can continue for too much longer. I don't have anything else that I am, like a journalist, an engineer, a nurse, or a receptionist, or anything to go back to once I leave the gym. I've worked in sales in the past, telemarketing mostly, and marketing and revenue, but nothing that had a title, nothing I could say I was. I was, and always have been, a wafter.

What I need to do is get my Bowen stuff going, because I can do that right up until I give birth (which, by the way, eek) and afterwards too, I suppose. It's not like you can drag clients in off the street though, it really is word of mouth, and making what I do known among the people I do mix with, and it's not being shy about being forward.

That last bit? I suck at.

By the way, I'm totally aware that everytime I say something like 'I could do blabla, but...', that 'but' represents a cop-out of monumental proportions. There's a lot of things I could do, but I'm too gutless, is what I mean. What I should be saying is 'there's a lot of things I can do...', but fuck the sematics, I wanna wallow. Wah.

Most of my life has been about surviving, not living, so there are no savings to draw from. Truth is, I've done well considering the limited income I've been on for so long, so yay for me. It's only relatively recently that I've become something, and have been paid for being that something. Granted, it's not really enough to save on, but it's been enough to keep me out of trouble, and to afford me the luxury of not going deeper and deeper into debt.

Reading back, I'm reminded that my life has been pathetic, really, and now I'm reproducing? Sweet geebus. I'm the drain on society that people complain about. Wallow, wah, etc.

The bills are coming in, as they always do, but with my - our - financial future to worry about now, they're wearing a hole in my sanity.

On the upside, the serene, madonna like pregnancy hormones seemed to have kicked in this week, so while I'm worried, I'm also wafting through the day not really feeling the kick of the amount of worry I'm investing in my monetary woes. *beatific smile*

44 days ago today...

...waves rolled on beaches and fireworks lit up the sky, and now here I am, eight weeks pregnant.

I don't understand the math either, but anyway, check this out! It looks human! Kind of! If you squint your eyes up really tight!

Oh my. I just thought of something.

There's a human being living inside me.

Man, that's just too weird.

This is its last week as an embryo and next week, it's officially a foetus.

The first scan is on Friday, and I'm so excited I could pee. I'm pretty damn sad too, because from that day, I'll no longer be involved with the unit and will be under the care of some stranger who'll want to make my privates a lot less so.

Okay, I just freaked myself out.

Freakiness aside, I don't want to leave my RE's unit, ever. I feel safe there, and in a world where no one looks after me, they do. Dammit, now I'm going to cry...

Being pregnant is the scariest thing in the world. This is already the best thing in my life, ever, and not a moment passes that I'm not aware of it. It's scary because now I have something to lose, and I expect that fear will never leave, no matter how old my child is.

Love has been fairly scarce in my life, so it's not something I recognise - or accept - easily, but I already love this little thingydoover so much, it scares me. Yup, this being pregnant gig is scary on so many levels, and, uh, I just made myself cry again. Good grief.

In other news, I finafuckinglly bought a digital camera. My inabilty to post any pictures has nothing to do with being scared of the damn thing, okay? I'm charging the battery. *whistling innocently*

woof

My neighbours have a cute little fox terrier, and if it doesn't shut the fuck up, I'm gonna throw a brick through their window and key their car.

Fucksake.

The bloody thing doesn't stop barking. It started at 7am this morning, and it probably won't stop until later tonight.

I believe I may go insane. When the annoying shit woke me up this morning, I was already dreaming of throwing a bucket of water over its yappy head, and every morning, this twisted audio version of the Chinese water torture begins all over again.

Pity me.

shitshitshit

My first scan is on the twentieth of May, and don't think I'll be able to breathe normally between now and next Friday.

My HCG came back at 66868. It was 19262 nine days ago, so it has NOT doubled every two to three days like it should.

The nurse was all la di da, everythings fine, but it's not fine because it's just not.

I feel sick, and it's not morning sickness.

This is going to be a really long week.

woot!

I got the high risk doctor.

Friends, this is a pants on head moment. Gear up now. ;)

mini rant

He thinks I got what I wanted, a baby, but it isn't what I wanted. This is something else entirely, and yes, it's also a baby, and yes, I do want it. What's your point?

Also, I went ahead with the IVF plans and stuff, but I never expected them to work. IVF has a high failure rate so while I went into it with an positive attitude, it doesn't mean I expected to get a baby out of it. I expected to be able to meet my maker in many, many years time at peace and knowing I'd done my best to try, and what wasn't meant to be, wasn't meant to be. Then I got knocked up during what can only be described as this century's version of the immaculate conception. That wasn't meant to happen because I'm infertile ferpetesake! And irresponsible, as it turns out. *banging head against wall*

He's freaking out because he has a daughter and a life and work and friends and family and he's embarrassed and he feels sick when he thinks about it and yadda yadda yadda. Why he thinks it's okay to tell me he 'feels sick' is beyond me. What in fuck am I supposed to do with that information? Does it really need to be said? As much as he's irritating the living shit out of me at present, and as much as I don't like him very much right now, I wouldn't tell him I feel sick when I think of him as the father of my child, because that would be cruel.

Dear father of my child: if you're upset by what you just read (and ha! reading here? as if), my comment about feeling sick was merely an example of an inappropriate response, so chill the fuck out. Kerist.

Okay then. I'm done.

the fun stuff

Bets are still being taken on what my HCG levels will be because Jane didn't order the test yesterday.

Didn't order the test?! The hell?!! I'm insane running a book pregnant, ferpetesake, give me the damn test! :madface: So she's running it today instead. Meanwhile, I'll try not grind my teeth down to stubs waiting for the results to be called in.

This finding an obstetrician gig isn't amusing me, not at all. I have insurance, but being treated as a private patient in a private hospital incurs gap fees of around two thousand dollars. Gap fees are the out of pocket expenses remaining once medicare and the private health fund have rebated all they can, and they are higher for obstetrics than any other speciality because we live in a litigious society, and obstetricians are being sued all over the place, and consequently those in private practice have exorbident insurance costs which filter down to us, the consumer.

Being treated in a public hospital as a public patient means there are no out of pocket expenses (and people complain about our socialised medical system? Good grief) but there is no continuity of care. I'd be seen by whoever is available on the day, and my baby delivered by whoever is on call at the time. I'm not keen on that idea because I'm doing this alone, so my doctor will be the only one going through this with me. Knowing s/he's be looking after me, and not whatever case rolled in the door that day, makes me feel safer too.

As I'm as poor as a church mouse, I'm trying to find a doctor who consults at, and has admitting rights to, a public hospital. As a hospital consultant, the doctor will be covered by the hospital insurance policies so no gap fees will be incurred, and being admitted privately to the public system means my insurance will put money back into the public system, and it also means all tests, scans, pediatricians, specialists and whatever else is needed for the next several months, will also be either covered by my health fund, or subsidised by the government. Yay.

The tricky bit is finding someone who is actually available over the Christmas holidays.

There are only two doctors to choose from at my elected hospital, and one has taken time off in December. There may be one more who specialises only in high risk pregnancies, and the receptionist calling me today to tell me if he thinks I, as a geriatric with a history of anorexia, qualify as high risk. So cross your fingers, because that dude has got to be good. The other doctor is also perfectly competent and good and all, but I feel funny about having a doctor whose name I have no hope of ever pronouncing. (says she, alphabet name aibee *rolls eyes* ) and anyway, how cool would it be to have a doctor whose talents totally exceed my needs?

Speaking of poor, I've got to continue with the crinone for at least another four weeks, which means a) ick, and b) at ninety smackers a week, ooh, that smarts.

Wow. That was all long, boring and kind of pointless.

rationale

It occurred to me this morning that the annoying sadness washing over me with boring regularity is more likely a condition of pregnancy than it is a consequence of the shit hitting the fan.

Women in safe, secure relationships with doting partners who talk to their bellies, rub their feet and who are in awe of their goddess-like state, still get the blues, don’t they? Even with all that lovin’ flying around them, they still get weepy and pathetic. That being the case, how I feel is perfectly natural. I even have an advantage to those loved and cosseted fairy princesses, because I’m lucky enough to have a tangible reason to feel dismal. Those poor bitches look at their perfect lives and wonder why in fuck they feel like throwing themselves off a cliff, and that probably makes them feel even more like jumping. Me? I get to say stab my finger in the air as I point and say ‘There, there it is! That’s the reason I’m crying!’.

In addition to those endogenous insanity inspiring hormones, I get avail myself of the delights of even more insanity inspiring, exogenous hormones in the form of Crinone. The listed side effects of this high dose progesterone are all pretty much those of pregnancy, kind of, if you multiply those side effects by a thousand.

More bloodwork was done this morning, and according to my monolithic calculator, my HCG should be around 155000 by now. They’ll call with the results this afternoon, but in the meantime, feel free to begin taking bets on what the number actually is. I, of course, am convinced the weepiness and the spectacular norks have nothing to do with this non existant pregnancy, and have everything to do with the progesterone going up my clacker on a nightly basis, because me? Pregnant? *snort* As if.

Morning sickness is still eluding me, and my GP says being fit is a very good explanation why. Fatigue isn’t a really a problem either, for the same reason, so if I am pregnant ( * snort* as if, etc) I’m not doing too badly for an old boiler, eh?


In other riveting news, I had a dream the other night. I drove to the beach and was walking on the small strip of sand left by the high tide. There were sharks swimming in the bay and I don’t know how or why, but I found myself in the water. The sharks turned out to be dolphins and one took my hand in its mouth, and because of its sharp teeth, I had to carefully pry it free. The overall feeling of the dream was that the beach was beautiful, and that being surrounded by dolphins was amazing.

Odd.

Last night I dreamed I was clearing out a room full of junk in my home. It didn’t take long, and I was thinking I should have done this ages ago. I kept finding one and two dollar coins, but the main visual feature was that the room turned out to be big and airy, with sunlight spilling through the huge shop front windows. It was no longer in my house, rather, it was in the city, and being used by my brother and his wife as a business premises. The room was sparsely furnished and open plan, with cream carpet and only two or three tall, cream occasional tables against the wall. It kind of looked like a minimalist art gallery, before any art was put on display. In real life, my brother is a successful photographer, so that part wasn’t far fetched at all. There was a desk at the end of the room, and as I was cleaning, I vacuumed up one of my sister in law’s fluffy slippers. She laughed, and took it out the vacuum bag for me, because the dust made it hard from me to breathe. This dream had me looking in satisfaction at how beautiful the room was, and how successful my brother had become, but there was also so much regret as I mourned the dreams that, unlike him, I'd never chased.

Both dreams had such vivid images that I wonder what they meant, if they meant at anything at all…

broken

I understand why people say their heart is broken, because that's exacly what it feels like. I've spent the last week not feeling much at all. I've been numb. Or hopeful maybe? Now I'm so sad, I can barely breathe.

I thought I was going to be able to write something about how he called last night, but I've been sitting here with tears pouring down my face, staring at that first paragraph, and I don't think I can.

Maybe later.

Watch this space.

I'll be okay though. I always am, but right now, I'm not.

happy mothers day

to you...

...and me.

(have I earned my Hallmark card yet?)

friends and countrymen...

...Bec and Leyton, do we really care?

No, I didn't think so.

We care about my coffee*, so what in the name of fuck is up with it today?! Same coffee, same caffetiera, same extremely talented barista**, and several tries later, it still tastes like shit.

I need to go kick something.




*public service anouncement: if you've been condemned to drinking decaf, Vittorio's is the shit. As in, it doesn't taste like shit. Be warned, Coffex absolutely isn't the shit, and it absolutely does.
**me, duh.

thirty five days later

Hello, I'm Sigourney Weaver, and this is my alien.

At seven weeks, it's twice the size it was last week, and it looks less like something from my nose, and more like something from outer space.

They grow up so quickly!

This time next week, I'll be telling it to clean its room, and it'll be asking me if it can borrow the car.

In advance and just so we're clear, no you can't. Now go clean your room.

a thing of beauty

Behold the parachute pant:

Beautiful, aren't they? Yes, that is elastic you can see around the ankles and yes, they do swish when you walk.

Imagine them in navy blue, and worn with a generic, and not quite as snazzy, pair of these (socks optional):

Now imagine seeing them on the father of your child.

Your eyeballs just exploded, didn't they?

chapter two

I don't expect him to get right on this and begin handing out cigars, and while it might seem reasonable to set a time frame to begin doing so, it's not an option.

In all the years I've known him, I've taught him that I'm very lenient with time frames, and he's taught me that he isn't the King of Making the Right Time, rather, he waits for it to magically appear, and waiting makes me nervous. The nervous thing is my issue, which is why I've generally handled it with grace in the past. Now though, I'm a wee bit overwhelmed and am reticent to add even a micron of extra stress - and why add that stress when he won't meet the time constraints anyway?

I've noticed too, that I'm still looking after him. With the counsellor, when I think of him and even here, on my turf, I'm looking after how he feels, which is why I need this distance. Traditionally, I look after him and what he wants, and frankly if anyone is going to be involved, they need to want to look after us. That's not meant to sound as spoiled and brattish as it does, by the way, what I mean is, I don't want to have to look after all of us, not anymore, not like I usually do, and the only way I can see that happening is by staying well away.

I've got to say though, I can think of nothing worse than presenting a new sibling as a fait accompli, and for what it's worth, neither can the counsellor. We talked at length yesterday, about a lot of things, and appparently I'm coherent even when I'm irrational and hormonally insane, and the arguments I made - and the reasons I'm upset - about how the father sees this panning out, held water and made sense to her.

As an aside, she thinks I'm an extremely resilient young (young!) woman, whereas I think I'm losing my shit. I'm ashamed at how badly I'm handling this, and she thinks I'm handling it extremely well. I hope she's not blowing smoke up my arse.....

Being the rational and sane biznitch she says I am, his numbers are now blocked from my cell, (but not from my from my home phone because I'm a maroon and I don't know how to do it) not because I don't want him to call, but because I don't want to know he hasn't. And he won't, and I haven't opened my e-mail today, for the same reason.

I'll probably undo all that sometime soon in an attempt to quit acting like Princess Poopypants, and because I'm delusional and hope he's willing to bang down my door to get to us, even though I know he's not.

God, I'm pathetic.

I'd never have thought in a million years that such amazing news would precipitate my life turing into such a nightmare in such a short time.

So much for well laid plans, eh?

All this stress can't be good for the baby, and that stresses me out more, knowing I'm damaging my child because I can't control how I feel.

my calculator

I mentioned it yesterday, and here it is, the Casio fx-102:

At circa 1976, it's older than Dabby.

The relative age of my calculator amuses me greatly, as do its dimensions*.

I have no idea why. :)


*16x10cm LOL!

oh my head

Today I see the RE unit counsellor because this is all too much to handle on my own. Things aren't going to well over here at casa di aibee, and last night, I told the father to stay away from me because I dpn't want to deal with his shit. It's not about what's best for the two of us, it's about what's best for the us I am now, me and this child, and I dont think having him around is the best solution.

I am, of course, an emotional and hormonal wreck right now, so what I think is probably worth shit.

I don't know what else to do though, because I do NOT want to wait for him to sort his shit out. Before, eh, I didn't give two shits how he ran his life, I wasn't part of it, it didn't affect me. Now though, how he runs his life will directly affect my child, if I allow it, and I will not allow my child to suffer because he's ashamed of us.

Cop this: he plans on telling his daughter AFTER this kid is already born and fuck knows how long he's going to wait. Can you picture it? His daughter will be, like, fifteen and he'll be all 'darling, can you guess who this adorable five year old is?'.

What I find most difficult to accept is his unwillingness to talk to anyone professional about how best to go about announcing this life changing news to his ten year old-and to his family and friends-because he's convinced he's already come up with the best option. It may well be the best option, but how can he assume to know if he doesn't explore others? It's delusional, in my opinion, to grab the first idea and run with it, with no consideration given to the consequences. Yeah, yeah, I'm a control freak but also in my opinion, if he wants to sort this out and be a part of our life, he needs to stop thinking about lying about us NOW, and start thinking about how best to meld his two lives-the one with me and the kid, and the one I don't know about, the one with his family and friends.

He doesn't want to do that, and I don't want to be a part of some big lie he wants to construct.

Thing is though he's all I have, and I don't know what in fuck to do. I just want to stay home and see no one. I don't want to tell my mum I'm pregnant, but I'm thinking I may have to move to where she lives, because sometimes you've got to do things you really don't want to do in order to do what's best.

Or something.

*banging head against wall*

lesson time

Lesson 1. HCG is created each time a cell divides, making the blood level of this hormone double every seventy two hours.

Lesson 2. Morning sickness is caused by rising levels of HCG.

So anyway, I had a blood test last week and my HCG was 2376.

I had another one today, (nine days early, I heart Pauline) and then I grabbed my calculator.

In between the two tests, there's been 2.3 seventy two hour periods, which gives a predicted HCG for today of 10217, or thereabouts.

At 19262, my results came back almost double that.

That's a lot of cell division going on kids, a LOT of cell division.

conclusion: I totally rule at this gestating gig.

(for today at least. Oy. *rolls eyes*)

plus one day

Before I continue:

Dear internet,

I'm a still water than runs deep, deep like the ocean. My archives reflect this. This page does not. Pleae don't dismiss me as a a foul mouthed lush with an unhealthy obsession with her boobs before reading my previous entries. Thankyou.

signed,
the management

*wiping dust from hands*

Well then, that's done, and now, back to my unhealthy obsession....


I feel even less pregnant today than I did yesterday.

Yesterday was the fourth anniversary (weekiversary?) of When We Had Sex, and bugalugs is six weeks old and, according to those in the know, looks like ET.

What do you think?

Frankly, I don't think so. I think it looks more like a booger.

And were's my damn morning sickness? I want my damn morning sickness. Criminy. The only signs I have are the peeing which, between you and me? Is impressive. The pooping, eh, not so much so.

My boobs, which are also A Sign and who began screaming 'You're pregnant!' seconds after we shared our post coital cuddle four weeks ago, are not up for discussion today because they're scaring me.

On Friday though, when they were still up for discussion, I visited Lou at her lingerie store, to lament the exchange of my perky A cups for these humungous notsomuchfunbags, and also to ask her advice on what apparatus would best tame these beasts*.

The bad news was that, according to Lou, these puppies are gonna grow exponentially over the next few weeks, so her advice was to strap 'em to my chest and wait for them to reach the boobie equivilant of terminal velocity before throwing away money on scaffolding I'd grow out of in two hours. The good news was that another woman, Maria, who was waiting for her friend to complete her purchase of small wisps of delicate lace and satin that she herself could only dream of wearing because she was sixteen weeks pregnant with her second child and sporting even more impressive norks than I, overheard my whine and waddled over to talk reassuring pregnant talk with me.

It was really, really nice to feel that kinship with another, and it was also reassuring to talk to someone who, like me, prefers to view children from a safe distance and if posssible, through glass. Apparently, once you've given birth to one, children aren't so abhorrent. Well, they still are, but less so when they're your own.

Motherhood? Oh yeah, I'm going to be great at this.




*so not a typo.