watching tv

with the cat

whose ears are saying ''where in hell is your damn lap?!"

Note the pedicure, and note that once you paint your nails (fingers, toes or otherwise) an alluring and mysterious shade of charcoal (which is so NOT goth black as it looks surpringly elegant) you're fucked and you'll never be able to go paintless again because under the varnish your nails will have been stained yellow and, eww. Also, you may forget how to puncuate. Public service announcment aside, I think you all need to sit back and appreciate the pedicure, gentle readers. Admire it even, because I can't promise you're going to see another one on these feet before the baby is born, which is when I expect the bendy bit in my middle will return.

what the phuck?

So I was listening to the radio in the car last night, to American Top 40, when the Black Eyed Peas single, Don't Phunk With My Heart came on - except the lyrics had been changed to 'Don't mess with my heart'. It sounded like shit, but at least delicate American ears didn't implode. I gather the word 'phunk' is a little too risque for you lot.

That either amuses me or scares me. I'm not sure which.

in which I grumble a lot before winding it up with a happy ending

I've been going to an antenatal yoga class for fourteen weeks now, ever since I was twelve weeks pregnant. While the yoga is enjoyable, the experience itself has been largely disappointing as I thought getting together with a bunch of pregnant women each week would lend itself to feeling I was a part of a sorority. I thought that if we didn't all become friends, we'd at least share something positive with each other.

Ha!

While it's not an openly hostile environment, there's definintely something hinky existing between them, the rest of the class who are all second and third time mums, and me, the wide eyed first timer. Correct me if I'm wrong, but there's a difference between offering advice based on experience, and spitting out the words 'You have NO idea what you're in for.'. Well no, I don't, but thankyou for sharing your malicious joy at the prospect of me falling on my arse once I'm exposed to what I AM in for.

At first I thought the advice was meant to be helpful, that the words were delivered with a virtual pat on the head and that the unspoken message was to go with the flow and take each day as it comes, but after hearing essentially the same thing each week from the same people, my rose coloured glasses fell off and I realised their subtext is probably more of the 'Oh, please. Keep planning just as you are, because I know it's going to all come crashing down around you, and I can't wait' variety, complete with rubbing together of hands, and punctuated by an evil cackle or three.

I don't understand why they seem to resent first time mums for our ignorance. Do they resent us because we've not yet changed a million poopie diapers, or that we haven't yet worn our baby's vomit down our shirtfront? Is it because we're not yet worn out and desperate from too many sleepless nights? If so, why? It's ahead of us, we all know that, but why insist it be with us now? Why not allow us this time of innocent delusions, and why be so maliciously gleeful at our potential downfalls? Why do they resent first-time motherhood and why do birds sing so gay? I often overhear conversations between them, and they DO think life is wonderful life with their already born children, so why do they do they only tell us the horror stories? They all hit out with the bad news, then turn among themselves and wax lyrical about the good stuff, leaving us reeling (and personally? wondering if I'm going to turn into the same herald of sweetness and light once I pop this kid. Hell, I'd probably be included in all the joy then)

Seriously, if I utter one negative word to any hopeful and eager, newly pregnant woman, kick me. Hard.

(Oh, and the other day? Not while at yoga, mind, but elsewhere, I overheard a conversation between some motherfuckers, and the bile they directed at pregnant women who aren't the size of a side of beef was kind of shocking! Fuck me. I've been cruising through life believing everyone thinks as I do, that we're all equal, regardless of our size and even if we're all different, but apparently, popular opinion is that we less-than-portly gestational units are also lesser humans who must have a lot of leisure time in which to remain so unacceptably within normal weight ranges. Yes I'm pregnant and quite possibly hormonal, but I don't think I was being oversensitive because I literally heard these socialogical geniuses say that we're also shallow, and have no idea of what the so called real world is like. I'm assuming we can substitute the word 'real' for 'life with bigger thighs'. Newsflash sweetheart, I work like a damn dog, firstly because I need the goddamn money, but also because the idea of obesity literally scares the bejeezus out of me. I worked damned hard to gain weight, and my world is NOT easy, and I wouldn't even wish it on you, you judgmental and intolerant freak. If I could, I'd be more relaxed and probably gain a few more kilos, but I've gained an acceptable amount of weight, and it's been hard to do, but I've done it and am still doing it for my baby. My doctor is pleased with my progress, so who are you to stand there and judge me, and others like me, because of the size of our arses? You have no idea of their story either, but rather than accepting them as they are, you've got to create some fantasy and discuss, within my earshot, how life is much easier for them than it was for you, and of course, what shallow people they must be. You know, if I could, I'd give it all up in a heartbeat. I'd take that leisure time you're so sure I have, but I can't afford to, because I don't have anyone to help me pay the bills when I'm too tired to work. You have no idea what anyone else's life is like, bitches, so shut your pieholes. Here's a tip: when you're talking behind someone's back, they're not supposed to hear you. If you talk where they can hear you, you're just showing the world how fucked up you are.

Now where was I? )

Imagine my joy when another first time mum joined our lynch mob yoga class a few weeks ago! Michelle is ten years younger than me, and ten weeks more pregnant, and we just clicked. It's funny how that happens, isn't it? When it's so easy to talk with someone you've just met, so realistically, you know nothing about each other so have nothing in common to click with. But I digress...these days, we set our mats up together, and take cover at the back of the room where the dried up old grinches more experienced mothers can't find us and scratch our eyes out. Despite our age difference, we have a lot in common. Usually, we don't get much time to talk as we both need to rush off after class, but yesterday, we both had the afternoon free, so we waddled on to the cafe for a spot of afternoon tea and a chat....and we ended up leaving at 7.30pm, some five and a half hours (and several pee breaks) after we arrived.

But I'm ahead myself. At one point in the afternoon, talk inevitably turned to baby names. Michelle and her partner, Luke, are having a girl, and while they'd like to name her Charlotte Olivia Hisname, she can't, because the Hisname component means the Charlotte's intials would then COC, and for obvious reasons, no. *ahem* That's not the point of this story though, the point is that when I heard the name Hisname, I sat up and said 'that's not a very common name, is it?' and she concurred.

Hang on. Luke Hisname? Could his grandmother's name possibly be Esther? And on her affirmative, I promptly fell off my chair.

My Auntie Esther is his nanna, my nanna is his Auntie Jean, and Luke's father is my mother's cousin. We're related, for cryin' out loud!

When we finally worked out this relationship, I'm sure that, in utero, both babies (what with babies being so sentient and all) slapped their little hands on their respective little foreheads and exclaimed 'well it's about damn time. We worked it out AGES ago!', as just before we began talking about names, we were discussing how one could quite possibly pass a close relative in the street and have no idea they were related - and there we were, meeting up each week with no idea that the children we're carrying are cousins! Criminy, I even met Luke last week, and missed the family resemblence until I met him again last night (me: Hi Luke. We're cousins! him: Uh Michelle, who's the lunatic you've brought into our home? ). He looks like his father who, in my opinion, looks like his cousin, who is my uncle and who, in turn, my brother most closely resembles. (huh?!)

I can't stop smiling because this coincidence is so good!

*drumroll*

Having received an e-mail from Jane asking me to fill in the blanks left by my non existant About Me page, I replied, and set about untangling the mystery. Then I shamelessly plagiarised myself by ripping that e-mail off almost entirely, and stuck the damn thing in my About Me page, so now it's packed with excitement and thrills, and more than a few dirty words.

Enjoy.

aww inspiring images

These were taken yesterday, and Chris (my doctor Chris, not Psycho Chris, says my baby is healthy and happy and growing well, which is a relief as the past two weeks have been a personal nightmare of epic proportions as I couldn't feel any movement at all.

So anyway, without any further ado, meet minibee...

and meet minibee's feet.

Mercy me, just how adorable are those little toes? And (she says proudly) the obstetrician doing the scans says the baby looks like me.

images from a Saturday

These were taken on the tenth, at almost twenty five weeks, and from the looks of things, my arse is pregnant too.

These days, I can only see my feet when I lean forward, and we're not even going to think about what I haven't seen in quite some time *ahem*

Dear internet

I'm back.

My apologies for being away for so long without any explanation, but I've been really quite ill. Some virus took me out, leaving only a couple of hours between 'hmm, I feel a bit funny' to being virtually comatose and surrounded by remote controls and tissue boxes. I shit you not when I say that I didn't even have the strength to sit here and type up an excuse for my absence. Boo hoo, etc.

Let's revisit the remote control issue. 'Remote controls?' you ask, to which I answer 'Yes, remote controls.' Has no one else noticed that the best way to survive feeling like that much shit is by commandeering every available remote control? I don't care if it opens the garage door, if you're sick, you need it within reach and ready to go. So for the last two weeks and in between naps, and in the absence of any of that heavenly pseudoephidrine, I lolled on the sofa and turned whatever I could on and off and on again. Repeat as desired. Also, many movies were watched (and what the fuck is up with that? My god, is there nothing entertaining to watch these days?), and I listened to my neighbours arsehole of a dog bark All. Fucking. Day. This idiot family has let their dog bark for at least six months, so because I was home to hear every single woof in the last two weeks, I finally reported that fucker to the local council - and wouldn't you know it? This is the week they've finally decided to shut the damn thing up, so there goes my opportunity to indulge in local politics.

While I was sick, the world continued to turn, and there is one day I'd like to comment on. It was Thursday, the eight of September, and that day was the twelfth anniversary of the end of my father's life. It was also the day someone had a birthday and celebrated the beginning of his life, someone else began chemotherapy to begin the journey to save her life, someone went to hospital to terminate a pregnancy and some would say, end a life, while some others buried their father and grandfather, and are mourning the end of his life.

It was a big day, eh?