there could be another witty title here, but there isn't, so sue me

Actually, don't. There's been way too much of that going around this year.

News in: the weebee, who has spent the entire time gestating on its head and in the you-want-what-to-come-out-of-where? posterior position, has taken it upon itself to revert to the more-appropriate-for-delivery anterior position, which would be a celebratory pants-on-head moment, if it hadn't put its cotton pickin' self into the breech position to do so.

At thirty two (!) weeks, around 15% of babies present this way and by delivery, only 3 or 4% are still there, yaddah yaddah facts statistics and resources etc, but pah! I've got something to obsess about now, so obsess I shall. I shall also prod and poke and annoy the kid until it moves its head down to the business end of things. Yeah!

I could tell you exactly when this flippenzee uppenzee occured....I doubt anyone's interested though....hmm....aaaaanyway, since this change in orientation, I've been as uncomfortable as all fuck, I need to pee all the goddamn time, my belly is all big and round, and I'm grumpy (no shit?). Also, I have diastasis recti for fuck's sake. God.

Also, I write about inane bullshit because if I was to touch on The Deeper Issues At Hand™, I don't think I'd be holding my shit together as well as I am. Maybe tomorrow. Or not. Stay tuned (or not).

how do people dream up snappy titles?

This morning, while eavesdropping on a conversation at the front counter at work, I heard a woman complain that bla bla her knobs were slippery bla bla.

Having NO idea what came before - or after for that matter, I blinked. I mean, seriously, wouldn't you? Slippery knobs? In this day and age? Well I never.

As it turns out, it was all about keys locked in cars, and the inability to do the coathanger thing to get them out because of this slippery knobs (which I now assume to be the car's, not hers) issue.

So yeah, big lead up to a small story, but it made me laugh, and now I'm sharing the joy because I'm nice like that.

finally

an entry that has nothing to do with anything gestational

go on, click it.

broken hearted

The car dealer just called and my car is ready to be picked up.

I don't want to go. :(

numb3rs

It's October 25, so I'm exactly two months away from my due date.

Two.

Months.

And as I'm also exactly thirty one weeks pregnant today, two months must be equal to exactly nine weeks, and that confuses me (which? Not hard, as demonstrated by my relationship with the cash register at work. All that's required to operate that bitch is to press this button here and *bing* cash drawerenzee openzees, which it doesn't for me because I don't know. Once upon a time, all I did was stand next to the fool thing for it to freak its shit out until Mitch went on an archeological dig to retrieve the operating manual from christ knows where and did some shit to it until it eventually went 'ding!' and had the evil spirit residing within exorcised from its soul)

So anyway, it's a big day today as apart from being a mere freakout away from being a mother, I'm also trading in the love of my life (that'd be my car) for a later model, family truckster that simply does NOT thrill my socks off the way my (two door, sporty and totally baby unsuitable and what? Put a stoller in there? Surely you jest!) car does.

Despite getting what was literally the deal of the century, I've been crying since I signed the contract. It's not the exchange of cars that's so upsetting (well, it is, because I have this quirky testosterone thing going on when it comes to my car), it's the exchange of lifestyles.

At this point, it's probably pertinant to mention my aversion to Four Wheel Drivers and their ridiculously huge Four Wheel Drives, aka 4WDs, which are SUVs for you circus animals. Point being, studies suggest what I already knew, that these fuckers are more arrogant and less likely to adhere to road rules than your regular idiot - who also happens to annoy the living shit out of me because dude, would it kill you to indicate? God. (my life on the roads is hell I tell you, hell)

So where was I? Oh yeah, exchange of lifestyles.

I'm not just trading in a car, I'm letting go of who I was and am theoretically welcoming who I shall be. Except that I'm not welcoming any damn thing because sportsfans, I'm not ready to let go of anything.

I don't want to be a mother.

There, I said it, and I don't feel any better for getting it out there and off my chest.

*sigh*

Don't get me wrong, being pregnant is rocking my world. Maybe more so about four or five weeks ago because in those days of aine and roses, putting on shoes wasn't an act worthy of Ripley's Believe it Or Not - and if there was every a valid argument for having a child within wedlock, there it is, right there. I'm not one for a legal union because I don't need the state to tell me who to live with and who inherits my vast fortune when I die, but god, please, for your own sakes, get married and then procreate, because as sure as eggs are eggs (ova are ova?) there will come a day when you look at your shoes and cry because you can't reach your feet, and that's where he steps in. If he does nothing else of note in your life, you'll appreciate that he can (and will, or god help that lazy fucker) help you bridge the gap between shod and unshod.

Now where was I?

ps

dear internet

My archives introduce you to a time when, while I didn't have such spectular norks, I was funny! and interesting! and actually had reason to use punctuation that suggests excitement! and intrigue! and thrills!

I cordially invite you to aquaint yourself with that aibee, because this aibee is boring the living shit out of me.

is this a piece of my brain?

Everything I write these days are all inane and pointless, I think because if I were to think about anything meaningful like my life, my future and that of my child, I'd collapse in a heap and whimper.

Oddly enough though, when I think about the thoughts I could be thinking if I wasn't avoiding them so diligently, ones that if I wasn't so vigilant about saving my sanity from, could transform me into a puddle of snot and snivel, I've got absolutely no idea about what it is I'm avoiding thinking about.

Slam three tequilas then come back and tell me if any of that made sense.

Contemplating

my beli butone.

It hasn't actually popped.

It's still neat, and the business end of things is still tucked into places it belongs. Closer investigation however, reveals that it's constructed its own front porch.

Either that, or it's saluting.

and the bright side is

...at least he's not my brain surgeon.

My postman (the translation for you freaks is 'mailman') habitually leaves the mail he's delivered hanging half arsed out of my letterbox (aka 'mailbox'). It's a signature, of sorts, and ordinarily I roll my eyes, thank fuck he's not my obstetrician either because, yikes, and forget about it until the next day when Moron McMoron does it again.

I'm not sure what it is he thinks he's paid to do, because I can't imagine the words 'delicately place a corner of the envelope into the mail slot' would be found anywhere in his job description.

Wonderboy's job today was to successfully deliver a large envelope marked with the words 'Important', 'Documents' and 'Do Not Bend'. That my letterbox is too small to follow that directive shouldn't pose a problem as the available - and some would say, only option is to leave a postal note in lieu of the undeliverable mail, advising that the mail can be collected from the post office itself. Dicknose must be on drugs have missed that class, because he folded the envelope in half, gingerly poked a corner of it into the letterbox, and went on his merry way, tra la. That would be teeth grindingly annoying on it's own, yes? But what if we add in a factor of Pissing With Rain into the equation? Then multiply that by a factor of All Day And My Mail Was Delivered This Morning? Wonder not, because I'm here to tell you that the result is Ruined Important Documents and one Mad As A Wet Hen aibee.

You bet your arse I complained about it, and you can bet your other arse that someone else is going to be paying the fifteen bucks it costs to get the paperwork replaced.

(actually, the post office was really nice about it, very apologetic, and you could practically hear eyeballs rolling when I told a story that must have been repeated several times already today)

I admit it

I'm the internet's worst updater.

Look! Over there! Is that a baby photo?!

(that my sweets, is called a diversionary tactic. Its sole purpose is to make you think of puppies and kittens and forget all about the millions and billions of eons between entries)

That's me, by the way. Four days old. Looking at that picture makes me want to squeak because truth is, I was a squeak-worthy baby.

This:

is the weebee. Please say it resembles me, or I may cry in despair at the thought of the poor little bugger looking like its father (with great emphasis on the 'little', and totally ignoring the possiblity of 'and with a big, giant head'....)

A bit of geographical narrative (because while I'm crappy with the updating, I'm crappier with the photoshopping, and bugger me if I can add little labels to images without schplutzing the uploading) to help you along. See that fuzzy thing in front of weebee's right eye? That's its toes, seemingly unattached to its feet, and as cute as all fuck. Now do you see the blurry bit to other side of its face? That's my placenta, which is such a sexy word. Hearing it spoken out loud gives me an almost overwhelming urge to don a negligee and listen to Barry White CDs. Fortunately, neither are available in my obstetrician's office, or if they are, he keeps them behind the counter for his 'special' patients, of which I'm obviously not one. Bastard.

I'm so ashamed

What is it about the pregnant belly button? Technically speaking, it being an indicator of the miracle within, it's fecund and replete. Some consider it sweet, cute even - so why does it feel so downright hard core pornographic to me?

It's embarrassing walking around with this thing poking through my clothes? I feel like a choir boy with an erection fercrisake.

The other day though, sporting this obscenity was almost made worthwhile when, after hearing 'aw, how adorable!' (Seriously? Or am I surrounded by fetishists?) from the majority of my aqua class, I blushed adorably and commented that while it may be cute now (meanwhile, what I was really thinking was 'I wonder when Debbie Does Dallas became the new cute?') , if it poked out any further, I was going to apply duct tape to force it to behave. One of the women approached me later to advise me strongly against doing this. I'm glad she did, as it seems I missed the birthing class where I would've learned that my navecular region was actually the baby's breathing apparatus. Oops.

So I was thinking, would the duct tape idea work if I stuck a snorkel underneath it all?

interactive aibee

Now, this kid is due on December 25 (ho ho ho), and while that's eleven weeks away, I'd like to start getting a wee bit more organised as my current state of preparedness = what baby?

After last week's freak out, it was pointed out to me that babies don't need much. I mean, seriously, why worry about not having a baby bath when I have a kitchen sink? So I've quit obsessing about things Every Expectant Mother Should Have, and am concentrating on what this expectant mother wants, and at this moment in time, it amounts to two things.

Firstly, bras, and the bodacious rack situation was placed under control last week, so now I'm eagerly awaiting the arrival of two hundred and sixty (eek) bucks worth of Bodywise scaffolding. I've been fitted on three (three!) previous occasions for such devices, and I must have the oddest norks in the world, because on each of these occasions, nothing in the store fitted me. I either looked like Madonna during her eighties conical boobies phase, or else my chest looked disturbingly Marty Feldman-esque, so these leopard print fuckers better do the job, because the alternative is that I hang loose, mother goose, and go over all National Geographic.

Next is a baby carrier, and then I'm done (although I've scheduled freaking out about what to put in the hospital and diaper bags for a later date. Watch this space)

My first thought was of a Babybjorn, but having read the research and speaking with my chiropractor, uh, no. So I looked further and after more research, found something called a hug-a-bub. It's endorsed by chiropractors bla bla wank bla, and offers a range of positons, from the newborn with no muscular control to the fiesty toddler with wrigglepot tendencies. Then I remembered: I think too much, which led to me becoming somewhat intimidated by the reems of fabric involved, so I did more research (hello, I lied when I said I was aibee. My real name is actually ohceedee), and found these things called Hotslings. No adjustments necessary and 90% UV protection? Now there's an idea. The hug-a-bub is still a contender, but maybe later, when I'm a little more familiar with baby wrangling, so can do so with less fear of breaking it. The baby, not the carrier. *ahem*

The hotsling looks so easy. Put sling on, chuck the baby in, feel smug at successfully wearing baby, (A hug-a-bub, on the other hand, I can see it now: Tie on Hugabub then, using my nose, dial the State Emergency Service, requesting they come and release me from the prison I've somehow created for myself. Meanwhile, my kid is amusing itself by sticking forks into power points. You think I jest? Picture any day involving gift wrapping. Now picture me rolling in a corner, unable to escape the binds of wrapping paper, decorative ribbon, and random bits of sticky tape. I don't cover leftovers with cling wrap for the same reason. I'm not good at these things, really.) As well as the 90% UV protection (which, summer baby, woo!) I imagine the hotlsing will be cooler to wear than a hug-a-bub.

Am I on the right track?

Anyone?

perky, upbeat title goes here

I've been pretty darn sparse on the updating, methinks because while everything is rosy on the surface, I'm not doing too well. Not today anyway, or last night, and twenty four hours of feeling overwhelmed means I must be falling apart, right? In actuality, I'm probably not bad at all, though I am anxious, and I don't get too off on whining about how pathetic my life is, wah and etc. I'll give it a burl though, and see how we go.

I'm happy and working and bladibladibla, but when do I get the goddamn opportunity to be a freakin' emotionally charged, pregnant woman and so, lose my shit? Never, that's when. And I'm so bloody tired, but if I give up my job, I give up....everything. Nothing. Fuck knows, but I feel like if I quit, I also let go of the only thing I've got going connecting me to the real world, the only thing that makes me feel like I'm something. I reckon if I quit, I'd be admitting that I'm still the pathetic piece of shit I pretend I no longer am. Working lets me fake it so the world believes I've changed. Or something.

I feel like quitting is giving up. I wish I could feel like it was taking time to seriously gestate, which is another story in itself.

Remember when I mentioned my (very sexy, ahem) anterior placenta? For the uninitiated, this translates to I Can't Feel A Damn Thing In There and so, with very little detectable movement, I have fears. Really, really, really BIG fears actually.It's a good thing pregnancy hormones keep one calm, because without them, I reckon I'd about blow a gasket. I mean, my anxiety has been awesome, but at least it's been manageable, even though I'm worrying about.....I can't even say it, suffice to say, what in fuck do you think no movement means? Now join the dots. Thankyou.

Having freaked out on one or two occasions, I called the midwives for reassurance, which is the adult thing to do, yes? To not act on the freakiness? But they told me I'd better come in to make sure everything is okay. So I did, and then they wrote in my notes that I was anxious so I came in. No, I was anxious and I took responsible and rational steps toward reducing that anxiety - and YOU told me to come in.

Now I feel like an idiot as well as still worrying that something is wrong with my baby. I mean, no movement? Fucksake.

No wonder I'm stressed.

Last Thursday, I went for my Glucose Tolerance Test, (and people, if you've had one already and someone tells you they're about to have one, here's the tip: don't say shit like 'ewww, that was AWFUL!' because, fuck off already, geez) and passed with flying colours (and to all you thoughtful asshats who told me the glucose drink tasted eww, and all that shit, good thing I'm a freak because I liked it, HA!) It works like this: they take your blood, then give you a 200ml drink containing some ridiculous amount of glucose (I think it's 75 grams per 100mls) (yes I know that because I'm an anal retentive freak who reads labels, what's your point?) and send you off to metabolise it, then bring you back in two hours to take more blood to see what went down. Easy, yes? Except the blood sister was a maroon. Good fucking grief. First, she took something like a litre of my bood, from a vein she had to dig around for TWICE because she fucked it up the first time, then instead of injecting it into the vaccuette thingies, she took the needle off the syringe, spilling my (uncontaminated, but c'mon, fercrisake) blood all over the counter when she took the lids off the vaccuette thingies while juggling a needle-less syringe filled with my finest vintage -and wiped it all up with a cottonball (which if my blood were all Hep C-ed out, wouldn't do a damn thing toward killing the virus, so hello! liver transplant for whoever sits down after this fool has drawn blood from Pamela Anderson). When I came back for the followup, it took her THREE excruciating explorations til she found a vein and repeated the whole procedure with lids and needles and blood going everywhere. I now look like a goddamn junkie, what with my five needlemarks, complete with matching bruises.

As an aside, weebee LOVED the glucose too, or was so totally juiced up it had no choice but to spend the rest of the day Riverdancing on my liver. Whatever it was, it was as cute as fuck, and extremely reassuring. Until my illogical mind says shit like it should always move like that so something must be wrong. Aargh.

Also, I broke a damn tooth last night.

Also, and this isn't really an issue anymore, but it's worth mentioning for the freak factor, I suppose. I saw Stef eight or so weeks ago, and it didn't go too well. I didn't go see him to reconcile or to be his friend, or for anything delusional like that. No, I went because I want to know I've done what I can for my child. We stayed on the front porch, because his daughter and his mate, Luch, were inside, and I didn't want to see them, nor did I want to create an uncomfortable situation for Stef. My timing wasn't terrific, but I made sure our meeting was as non-confrontational as possible.

As another aside, Luch is the tool who blamed me for the icepack incident, so while I'm not one to throw around accusations, it's kind of (read: IS) his fault I'm involved at all.

Luch came out the front door, and Stef immediately asked him something stupid like, had Luch heard anymore about the lawsuit? At that point, I really wanted to kick Stef in the nuts, but in the interests of remaining civil, I didn't say a word, thinking I'd call him later as he'd said he was going to bring it up at the commitee meeting the next day, and I wanted to request he not involve anyone else in what is essentially an issue between me and the insurance company, and NOT the soccer club. So I did, call him that is, and he didn't answer the phone three times that night, despite my number coming up, and on the fourth time the following day, he finally fucking answered - and that's why I never called before visiting last night, brainiac. God.

Anyway, the conversation rapidly degraded, and ended with him telling me he doesn't care, me qualifying his statement as meaning he doesn't care about me or his child, and stating that as he has no interest in me or this child, I'd like it in writing by the end of the week, and that if it wasn't in my mailbox by then, I'd take it further, and him hanging up on me because he's even more of a control freak than I am, and if I'm going to reject him, he's going to reject me more, so there and neener, etc.

He did the same thing last May when, after I'd told him not contact me, that I'd call him as I didn't want him involved right now, he called a week later to
a) tell me he didn't want to be involved (erm, hello? Didn't I say that first? and
b) pleaded to be allowed to call me, not to be involved with the baby, mind, but so he'd know how I am or some shit.

a) dude, you don't get both at once, you're either in or out, and if you want to be let in, smarten up, fercrisake, and
b) when he agreed to see a counsellor, I agreed to allow him entree into my life, and he never called again.

I can't believe I ever had sex with this wankstain.

There's loads more to tell, like how the Big Plan for the personal training and Bowen studio fell apart, and about the future of my business looking iffy, to being assessed next Thursday for aqua aerobics, to being assessed (finafuckingly) for my Certificate IV in Fitness, to my mother being told she's gonna be a grandmammy, to needing to buy a new car, to signing up for a four day Pilates Instructors course, to it being moved to a month later, meaning I'll only be able to do it if I'm not in labor, to totally needing to get my shit together and doing something constructive toward making this place baby ready, because that last bit? Is not getting done AT ALL.

the world has a new linebacker

Welcome Noah.

(and yes, I'm aware I owe you all an update, but right now, I'm too busy going over all sniffy at amalah's little* baby, so for the time being, enjoy her update instead, k?)


*comparitively speaking