deep thought

As much as I can't wait to meet the little critter, I don't want to rush any moment of this being pregnant thing either. Ask me how soon I want this to be over when this whole thing is really BIG and boring, but right now? Being pregnant is a gas (not literally, not anymore, thank fuck, but in the beginning? Oh. My. God. ) and anyway, everyone loves me!

Well, maybe not me me, but pregnant me is all the rage right now. and I'm thinking men have been genetically coded to go over all protective and caring over us incubators.

*thinks*

Or maybe it's the bigger boobs? Hmm.

Anyway, the men in my classes are so sweet, and are behaving in a manner quite distinct from the way the women - who are also very sweet - act.

I'm thinking men are influenced by a latent 'Must Nurture Woman And Bang Self On Chest With Fist' gene, while women seem to influenced by the more excitable 'Weeeeee!' gene. Both genes apparently make themselves known in the presence of increased bra sizes levels of progesterone and HCG.

The men are gentler somehow, in a way that's hard to explain. Maybe it's because they can relate to me as a person and without the burden of automatically mentally undressing me and bending me over the bonnet of a car? Because let's face it, unless you're into that kind of thing, or are married to one, pregnant women, even with the voluptuous norkage, are hardly the stuff of lurid and detailed fantasies.

**********

Today is my fourteen week and two day mark.

despite the hirsute component of the father's genetic structure, my baby looked way less fuzzy than this one, which isn't mine, btw.
(surprised?)

I thought I'd reached a temporary terminal velocity in the increasing girth department, but it seems I was kidding myself. According to reports, I've graduated from the questionable 'She Looks Like She Needs To Fart' phase and have stepped neatly onto the 'Whoa, She's SO Pregnant' podium.

dilemma

I'm having a really hard time telling my mother.

Actually, no. I'm not having a hard time telling her, as my inaction is a decision not to. The hardship is in rationalising the reasons why I should tell her.

She's my mother, fercrisake, and I'm her daughter. This should be a time we share the wonderful changes going on in each other's lives: her ascension into grandmotherhood, and mine to motherhood.

If (when?) I break the news of my pregnancy, she'll be all 'Oh bubby (that's her name for me, now you can all shut up) that's wonderful!', and I'll be all *yawn*, because she WON'T suddenly be attentive, she WON'T suddenly care about me, she WON'T suddenly be my mother. Even if she responded by becoming those things, and even if it was sincere and honest, it would hurt as I'd not be able to fall into its warmth and nor would I be able to believe it. If she's who I know her to be, well, that will hurt too, just as much.

She knew in January that I was seeing a Reproductive Endocrinologist, and that's big news in and of itself, regardless of the outcome. In March, as soon as I knew I was doing IVF, she knew too. In the six months since then, she hasn't asked for updates or progress reports, and she hasn't asked how I am. Mum rarely (in truth? never) does, so I'm the fool for imagining that after all the bullshit, we could still forge a loving relationship. Like an idiot, when the time came to choose a donor, I involved her again. I wrote her a long e-mail, describing each prospective donor, and involving her in my selection by sharing what did and didn't appeal to me about each of them, and asking her opinion. I wrote of the facts of IVF with donor insemination, but mostly, I wrote to her about my feelings, and I asked her about hers. As a daughter, I turned to my mother and I gave her my heart. She reply contained one line:

That's great bubby, keep me in the loop.

That was three months ago and I haven't heard from her since. Something slammed shut that day, and I don't want her involved because asking to be kept informed is NOT the same as caring enough to be interested.

I can't keep trying to be a daughter to someone who doesn't want to be my mother. It hurts too much, and no matter how much I rationalise these feelings, I still believe it is a deficit in me that makes me unlovable. Even rationalised, the pain of that belief is so deep, it's physical.

Everyday, I'm excited as I plan on telling her, and everyday I feel sick when I realise that my excitment lies in what I hope will be, and not at what is.

Tell her or not, no matter what I do, I feel like I lose.

I wonder

if I could ever love a man more than I love my paneer?

Is it wrong to want to skip and go naked in the fields with a tin of sardines?

At what point does a craving become a fetish?

it's quiet because

I'm flat out this week, working morning shifts each day, then going back at night to take more classes.

Meanwhile, today marks the first day of my second trimester. Here's an out of focus 3D image of someone else's baby. The purpose of its inclusion is to distract from the current lack of interesting prose.

at last

and after six weeks on it, I'm finally off that muckinfruckin Crinone shit, and waddya know? I have eyeballs! My shoes fit! And did I mention, I have eyeballs!

The grumpiness? It has not passed. Then again, the same idiots are still driving on my roads, and are apparently still on a mission to irritate the living shit out of me by:
a) pulling out of a car park right in front of me-and then abusing me. wtf?
b) wandering across a two lanes and almost into my car.
c) pulling right out in front of me from a side street, causing me to come to a screaming halt, and then forcing me to drive at 30kmh below the speed limit. Listen up, dickwad, I was the only car on the road, and if you'd waited two seconds, you could have calmly pulled out after I passed your idiotic self, and carried out your 'I'm a clown driving a toy car' act without causing me brain damage.
d) driving next to each other on a two laned, main road at 10 kmh below the speed limit, effectively blocking anyone from passing them in what is known as 'the right hand passing lane'. Fuckers.
e) speeding up to cut me off when I indicate before changing lanes into that humungeous space available right there for me to do it in, and without disturbing anyone. Oi, fuckface, it's not a race and you're not Michael Schumacher.
f) stopping at a red light and leaving a car length space ahead of your stupid self. Take off your ridiculous hat and understand there are sensors that switch these things on, and if you don't move the fuck forward, we're going to be here until The Rapture.
g) not turning right on the green light when it's come up three times already. What's the matter, you like the pretty colours?
h) braking and then indicating. It's called an 'indicator', you peckerhead, not an 'I've already braked, and now I'm going to turn'. Fucksake.

The universal symbol for 'I can't drive' is a visible hat, and not necessarily on the driver. A white hat is a red alert. Interesting, at least to me and on an anthropological level, is that the tissue box in the back window has become the modern day a warning signal. It stands to reason then, that a white hat and a tissue box should be known as the universal symbol for 'this driver has been marked for extermination'.

meet one half my baby's DNA

moi, a self portrait.

and if you think I didn't photoshop the living shit out of the bags under my eyes, you'd be right.

(also, my skin really is that flawless)

*ahem*

twelve weeks, one day

and this is the last week of my first trimester.

not my baby, but I saw mine doing the exact same thing, aw

Since we last met, my kid has grown past its frivolous 'Look at me! I'm a button! Weee!' phase, and into its more serious 'I've got arms and legs and I'll kick yo' ass' phase. Crown to rump, it's around six centimeters in length, which makes it a week longer than its gestational age would have it (and folks, that extra week is, in fetus land, like ten human years worth of growth). With its big head and short legs, it still looks a lot like its father, but given that ol' brutus in there is already taller than him, ahem, I can deal.

The obstetrician, Nina, and I spent an hour watching my child (my child? :eek: ) float around in there, and it was the most magical hour I think I've ever experienced. Oddly enough though, none of this feels real yet, not even after yesterday. When we first peeked inside, it was asleep, and stubbornly so, which augers well for the future. It was an abdominal ultrasound, which means drink a litre of water and hang on, thankyou very much, and Nina was squishing the damn ultrasound thingydoover into my belly to get bugalugs to wake up and roll over so she coould measure its neck. I was squishing my damn face up so as not to pee all over Nina. My efforts worked, thank fuck, but hers didn't, so then she had me and my exploding bladder roll from one side to the other to try and shake the little bugger into place. No dice. I kept up with my face squishing, Nina kept up with her belly squishing, and when it was good and bloody ready, my baby woke up and waved its arms, kicked its little legs, and eventually rolled over and showed us its neck. It was so active in there for the rest of the exam, it was practically doing the hokey pokey. Meanwhile, I thought my heart would burst.

As an aside, is it wrong to call it an 'it'?

Visually, everything looks perfect. My blood gets drawn next week to look for any other markers, and then all the results will be analysed to give me the odds of any chromosomal disorders. Even then, nothing is certain, so this type of tesing is really more of a guide to whether or not an amniocentisis, which is a definitive test for Downs Syndrome and other chromosomal disorders, is warranted.

As a part of an international study, the hospital has been supplied with the only 4D ultrasound technology in this city, and these scans are scheduled every month for the next three months, and then every two weeks until I give birth, and that is about as cool as shit.

sto parlando

of Italian, I'm going to learn how to speak it, again, perche, non ho parlato la lingua per tredici anni adesso, quindi, domenticato quasi tutto. Vorrei la mia bambino sentirlo la lingua anche.

Non che male, eh?

a domani

That's Italian for 'see you tomorrow', and tomorrow, the blob and I will meet again when I take us both in for a Nuchal translucency screening.

I'm a tad nervous (read: am fucking terrified), and have shifted smoothly into 'what if my baby is dead?' mode. This mode is not unfamiliar, but as I'm not yet batshitcrazy with despair, it's probably fair to conclude that I'm pretty bitchen at the motivating self talk. However, my generally unaccompanied reassuring words, a la 'of course it's alive', are now being followed waaaay too closely by the words '...but it has a chromosomal disorder'.

This could be a good time to resume banging my head against the wall.....

a work in progress

April 24

June 5

lookit

I've been shopping.

It's not bad, is it? I mean, it's not very sexy and it's going to do shit-all for my street cred, but it was a great deal. Thing is, I'm either in shock or I'm allergic to it, as I've been unable to breathe since I brought it home.

Lack of oxygen aside, it feels somewhat premature to be buying baby stuff already though. Moreover, it feels like a redundant purchase, seeings as how I'm still wafting in a cloud of denial of my pregnant state, but it was on sale at Target at forty percent off, and I'm a sucker for a bargain.

Tomorrow, following the same economic strategy, I wanna buy a steam cleaner. The one I'm looking at is at half price, so in just two days, I'll have saved enough to buy that pair of shit hot jeans, and still be fifty bucks ahead!

I call it 'aibeeconomics™'.

wantwantwantywant

Enough of that maudlin crap, let's covet these fucking awesome jeans. Maternity wear? Pish. Once the baby's born, I could eat my own body weight in burgers and fries and wear them as fat clothes forever.

Is selling one's soul an option these days? Cuz that's about the only way I'm gonna get these jeans on my butt (and if so, and if the appropriate people are reading, call me....)

I must be infuckingsane to think I can do this.

I mean, I know I will do this, there being no other choice but to do this, but...

this entry doesn't make sense to me either. I miss my brain.

*poot*?

Today, while reading a magazine in a waiting room somewhere in town, I had this odd feeling in my belly. I looked down and right where it felt funny, my clothes were moving, as if my belly was being tapped from the inside.

At eleven weeks and three days, it's waaaaaaaaaaaay to early to be the baby kicking the living shit out of me. It had to be gas, but this was the freakiest gas I've ever experienced. I didn't *poot*, in case anyone is wondering, not then, and not since, and even back in early pregnancy when all I did all day was drop my (toxic) guts, I never had gas that tried to escape by via my abdominal wall.

Well, that was a wholesome update, wasn't it?

My farts.

Good grief.

I'm this pregnant

this isn't my image, nor is it my blob.

Today marks the eleventh week and oneth day, and the following images are mine, and were taken at eight weeks and three days.

this is my blob (click to biggify)

Its head could be anywhere. Pick and end and go with it, okay? I should be able to work it out once it's born....

and this is too (click, biggify, etc)

Those wiggly lines are its heartbeat.

*dreamy sigh*

At two inches long, little blobbikins is now three times bigger than what you see here, is weighing in at a massive 8 grams, and is wiggling around in there getting ready for its big debut in December. It's also blocking my view of my toes.

funday

It seems I really do have a belly, so much so that the man who guessed I was pregnant last week, took one look at me today and exclaimed 'Whoa, you certainly grew since I last saw you!'. Then he invited me for an early dinner this weekend to meet his wife and kids. He told me that this is a very special time, and that nothing should get in the way of that. You know though, as special as this time is, it's people like him that help make it feel special when it could just feel downright scary.

One by one, the class regulars are getting to know my news, and all of them have been so happy for me. Again today, one of them ever so gently, and totally non invasively, touched my belly as he said goodbye. He's away for the next few weeks (his work means he needs to go to Italy, the lucky dawg) and told me that he'd be thinking of us and wishing us both well while he's gone.

Rose joined the class this morning too. She's the woman who knew I was pregnant even before I did, and who has been so supportive and positive and excited for me. Work commitments have meant she hasn't been able to make her usual Wednesday class, so it made my day to see both her and another of the Wednesday people, Jess, there this morning.

Finally, I feel great, so I'm hoping this second trimester second wind kicked in this morning. Or maybe I'm jsut floating on all the love that's on offer. :) Or maybe it's the methamphetamine I whacked this morning to get me going... *whistles innocently*

mixed bag

My neighbour brought over a big shopping bag FULL of strawberries yesterday. Usually I'm quite tepid about the strawb. Eh, you know? I can take 'em or leave 'em, and I usually leave 'em as they don't do anything for me. These strawberries though, were magnificent, and I've eaten almost all of them already.

These people are our local Tom and Barbara, cultivating a veritable market garden, smack bang in the middle of suburbia, and I'm lucky enough to be the recipient of hand delivered organic produce from time to time. The father taps shyly on my door and proffers a bag of whatever it is they have too much of, and then asks to use my garden waste wheelie bin. He can hardly speak English, only enough to whisper '...bin?', but we understand each other, and the deal is done, right there without fuss, and at the front door. It's a fair trade. Yesterday though, this friendly neighbourhood bartering reached a new level for, along with the strawberries, there was an apology ('..dog..sorry...' ) for his annoying as fuck dog's incessant barking. Methinks I've been bribed, which presents a moral quandary: I ate the strawberries. Would it still be wrong of me to throw a brick at the dog's head the next time it wakes me up at 5.20am?

He knows the dog irritates the living shit out of me because when it starts up, I yell at it over the fence. I also yelled at his wife the other day. She was outside, the dog was barking, and she didn't do a damn thing. She doesn't speak English at all, so considering yesterday's strawberry drop, she probably thought my fist in the air with associated crazed look was an enthusiastic request for some of the fruits of their labor.

The scariest thing about looking over the fence though, was not the wife's face, it was the sighting of a new puppy . Yes, it's as cute as fuck, but what if this cutey pants fuzzy mcfuzzybutt learns to bark too?

Meanwhile, I've been googling puppy pictures and my angst has turned into warm fuzzies and I really couldn't be arsed being pissed off about the contravening of this council's nuisance laws. Wanna see another puppy instead? Meet Bosely. Hot damn but is that not the most adorable thing you've ever seen?

Where was I?

Oh yeah, I'm getting new floor coverings in the next week or three. Yay! It's going to be totally average and not very appealing Housing Trust beige linoleum, but think gift horses, mouths etc, and I can't wait because *drumroll* it's not carpet!

The housing inspector came to assess my health hazard floor coverings last week, so the nuclear waste dump spare room needed to be cleared out so he could even see the carpet, or lack thereof, in that room. There's some really heavy stuff in there, and as the room clearing is mostly for my child's benefit, and as the father of my child (whose name is Stef. I didn't want to name him before, out of respect for his privacy, bla bla, wank wank, but seeings as how I don't respect him...rock on with naming the father all over the internet, woo!) has, in the past, promised to clear the shit out of that room and is, after all, the father of this child who's getting a room cleared out for its benefit, I called him.

This was last Saturday. He didn't pick up when I called, and despite me unblocking my number so it would show up on his phone, he never called me back.

What a cowardly piece of shit.

I moved a lot of stuff anyway, and the inspector successfully inspected, but between now and the lino laying people's arrival, I need to find someway to clear out the rest of the seventy three tonnes of crap that I can't lift, and don't want the lino boys touching, much less seeing. That someone will likely be Stef, and I am, in my own demented way, quite looking forward to knocking on his door and watching him panic when he answers it to see me standing there. Hee!

In other news, my new obstetrician cancelled on me last week. My appointment was for this Monday, so when his secretary called and told me of the family emergency preventing him from seeing me for another three weeks, I, with my fatalistic attitude, threw my hand to my brow, convinced that I'd never find an obstetrician, and that ergo, the world was about to end. Before it did though, I heard this disembodied voice speak to the secretary, asking her if she could speak with me. Seems the good doctor is currently running a study, and it seems Denise is an integral member of it, and she wanted me to consider joining the study. Without even knowing my social situation (which, to summarise, entails no family, few friends, a dipshit sperm donor and only one aibee), Denise went on to describe the nurturing environment the study provides, and the support to be found in being a part of a team all working with me to bring my child safely into this world. My hand shot up so fast, I nearly dislocated my shoulder, and now I'm involved in this High Risk Maternal Medicine study, and will be getting monthly ultrasounds, including the fancy schmancy 3D scans, for the first few weeks, gradually increasing to weekly scans as my due date approaches. I'll know my baby intimately before we even meet. Aw. The study also provides all the antenatal testing a geritatric mother could ever need, beginning with my Nuchal Translucency Screening booked for next Thursday (which, by the way... *chewing nails*)

Finally, it's mum's sixty fourth birthday tomorrow. I had planned on sending her the ultrasound pictures with a card saying 'Happy Birthday, Grandma', but she went to stay with her brother (which is a relationship providing me with hours of entertainment at my psychiatrist's)(no, ick, they're not having sex)(you sick bastards) and issued me with a reprieve. Yes, I know his address. What's your point? I'm going to call her and carry on with the Jolly Good fellow bullshit still, but will leave the big news and associated images for her Christmas card.

Speaking of childbirth, I need a new car. I love my car (think white duco) and I SO don't want to get rid of it, but it doesn't have air conditioning (hello summer baby!), is a two door, and is sprung really low. Dragging my humungous self out of it when I'm as big as a house ain't gonna be much fun. It was with this in mind that I wandered through the car yard down the road yesterday-and the woman there knew I was pregnant. Thankyou belly.

gratuitous plug

because I'm all about the free stuff.

can you

think of 43 things that define who you are or what you want your life to be?

I couldn't, not until I stumbled across this site. When faced with the task of thinking of 43 things I wanted to have or do or be, I didn't know how to do it.

And then I remembered. All I had to do was dream.

I didn't think of 43 things, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that after a lifetime of believing I couldn't, this site, in all its simplicity, got me thinking that I can.

Goals don't need to be world changing for them to be life changing. My life changed today because I achieved a goal.

In writing today's entry, I've actualised one of my 41 things. I've shared the simplistic pleasure that can be found in realising one has one's own 43 Things.

Enjoy. :)

So much for those warm fuzzy feelings about humanity.

Among the other smaller envelopes, there was a big, yellow one sticking out my mail box when I left today. It was most likely the item I bought from eBay, but as I'm as tired as all fuck, and seeings as it was only an envelope and not a jiucy looking parcel, rather than drag myself out of my car that minute, I figured I'd grab my mail when I got home.

In the meantime though, some fucker stole it all, even the smaller stuff.

I hate humans, I really fucking do.

I'm so angry right now, I feel sick.

people are noticing

In two days, four clients have known something is up. More specically, they've noticed this little buddha belly of mine.

Ten weeks pregnant and I've already popped. Shit a brick man, we first timers are supposed to pop later than second (and third and ad infinitum) mums, because unlike our more experienced sisters, you can still ping pennies off our relatively taut abdominal muscles, so they keep everything in for a longer time. My abs of steel should mean I pop even later than that, but nooo.

So anyway, the first sighting of my pregnant self occured on Monday morning, when I staggered into work for a 6.15 class. Several of my regular clients were already there, and having watched me lug my exhausted self through the door, one commented later that I looked beat, and like I really didn't want to be there. That's bad, isn't it? When clients can tell you're half asleep when you're being paid to be perky and wake them up? Considering that any day now, I might not be able to keep doing this, I figured now was as good a time as any to admit to at least one of the group why I might go missing one day.

But he already knew! Seems he took one look at me that morning, and worked it out straight away.

We had a lovely chat too, and he's as thrilled for me as you'd think a close friend to be. His wife had their first child at 39 and the second at 42, so he told me that if I had any questions or worries, to let him know and he and his wife would invite me over for dinner, and go from there.

How nice is that? Of course, being the hermit and antisocialite I am, I probably never will, but it's so nice to be thought of so warmly like that.

It's also been really nice to find there is support, and most of it has come from people I never expected it from. I've got to start trusting human nature, huh?

Continuing on the I've Been Busted theme, another client asked after my burgeoning self last night. So far, it's been the men who are good at this noticing this kind of shit. Maybe it's my boobs? Whtever it is, the men are the ones pegging the pregnant chick.

I don't even know this guy's name, I only know that he's one of my favorite clients. When I told him that yes, I was indeed pregnant, he thanked me for making his week, and then waxed lyrical on the magic that was about to be mine, as a parent. Then, with my permission, he gently and unobtrusively placed his hands on my belly, and spoke to my child.

It was fucking beautiful.

He went on to tell me of his four children, of his three living daughters and his one son, Noah, who died at four weeks old. He spoke so lovingly of his children and his wife, and knowing he's lost a child makes his warmth and gererosity that much more meaningful. I imagine it would be so easy to switch off and refuse to love after experiencing such a loss. He's a very special man, and writing about him now has evoked the same feelings of warmth and reassurance and love he radiated while we spoke last night.

Another client, Robyn, saw us, and so approached me after the class to confirm her suspicions. She congratulated me, and without knowing anything more about me, told me of her friend who was going through IVF as a single woman using donor sperm.

Synchronicity much?

I've given Robyn my number to give to her friend, as while I didn't go through IVF, I have gone through what it took to come to the decision to do it. Hearing her story also made me realise how lucky I am, because as much as I'm pissy that half this kid's DNA comes from shitforbrains its father, had I not fallen pregnant to him, in three years time, I could easily be this woman, with a lot of heartbreaking tries, and nothing to show for it. She's forty two now, and she's decided that this next cycle will be her last. If anyone believes in good vibes or the power of prayer, this nameless, faceless woman could probably do with some help. I'm sure the vibes and prayers will know where to go.

Finally, I was working with a client one on one, and having woefully tried to demonstrate some crunches on an exercise ball, and nearly dying from the effort, she asked if I was pregnant too.

I think if you didn't know me, you wouldn't notice, but because these people see me so regularly, and because my 'trademark', if you will, is being taut and trim, my thicker middle is a quite the neon sign flashing above my head, and announcing my pregnancy.