almost home

Yesterday I faced the fear I've quietly lived with these past several months. Having dealt with irrational anxiety in the past though, I've dealt with this latest in much the same way. I don't act upon fears I'm able to rationalise have no tangible reason, and I don't ask anyone for reassurance, for that would be asking them to participate in my delusion. Why? Because no one can rid me of my fears, when my fears lie in my lack of faith in myself, and not in anyone else's knowledge.

I know that, when my doctor says 'everything looks perfect', he means it, that his assessment is based on the facts he's accumulated and his experience of my baby at that time. Knowing that and trusting him as I do (and I do, which is a credit to him because doctors are, in general and in my experience, full of shit) doesn't mean I'm not terrified everyday of losing what now feels like my only reason for being - so what good would it do to keep calling, hounding, seeking reassurance when it's not him I need to trust more, but my own judgment I need to trust at all? So I keep to myself and get through each day, allowing my fears to filter through without giving them value, and taking solace in whatever tiny movement the weebee may grace me with.

After yesterday though, I'm finding it so very hard to hold onto my shit, because yesterday feels like all the fears I thought were irrational, aren't.

The weebs is still breech, and after an ultrasound to determine the viabilty of performing an external cephalic version , we saw that it also has its umbilical cord wrapped around its neck, and while isn't considered a red alert issue, it does preclude me from the baby turning action, and also, I have a really, really bad feeling about this.

I go back in a week, and if the cord hasn't moved, I'll be scheduled for an elective cesarean the following week, and fyi: I'm not tossing rose petals while skipping through fields in anticipation of that event.

With a baby wearing its cord as a stylish cravat, mothers can assess their babies' health by monitoring fetal movement. A nuchal cord isn't generally a medical emergency, and one in four babies present this way, and the chances of a cord mishap are like, one in a bazillion, but still, this actualises all my fears. This is something that could be the reason I don't bring my baby home at all. Taking note of and acting upon less or different movement can mean the difference between life and death in that one in a bazillion event, but my baby barely moves anyway, so I have no way of knowing if my baby is strangling itself on the very thing that keeps it alive. If anything is wrong, I need to rely on instinct telling me so - and as I explained earlier on in the piece, I rationalise my way out of feelings that appear irrational because that's how I stay (relatively) sane, and instinct is often not a rational thing. What if I miss somethng important because I'm too busy being rational? But if I act on instinct, with the way I feel today, I'd be moving into the unit and demanding a monitor be strapped to my belly and left there for the next two weeks.

To clarify though, the breech isn't the problem. The nuchal cord isn't a problem. The nuchal cord with a breech presentation is. It doesn't matter a whit if it's a cephalic presentation, nor is a breech presentation an issue when the cord isn't wrapped around the babies neck. Go me for getting it arse upwards. Or downwards, as the case may be. Furthermore, Chris is one of the handful of OBs who has the skills to regularly deliver breech babies. He enjoys them even, as the more successful deliveries he achieves (ie all of them), the less unneccessary cesareans are performed, ergo the statistical data will eventually show that breech presentation is a variation of normal, and more OBs will hopefully reconsider their penchant for slicing and dicing. A randomised study in 2000 comparing vaginal versus caesarian breech deliveries was never concluded as early evidence suggested caesarian deliveries have a four times higher infant mortality rate than vaginal. This was followed by a 2002 paper that questioned the reliability of the evidence, as the randomness of the study also meant that the OBs performing the breech deliveries had random amounts of experience performing them. Summing it up politely, any old codger could have been (and was) given a breech presentation to deliver, and so could fuck it up and lose the child. Additionally, an OB was only present for 12.5% of the planned vaginal deliveries, while only 0.1% of the elective caesareans was performed without an OB. Breech deliveries are harder than cesareans, so it's little wonder the numbers came back in favor of the ol' scalpel action. Moreover, in countries where vaginal breech deliveries are the norm, meaning the OBs know what in hell they're doing, the infant mortality rate is not notably different from that of cesarean deliveries.

My, aren't I the mine of information this morning?

That was all an aside, by the way, and not really relevant to this feeling of impending doom that shrouds me today. It was interestng though, eh?

Anyhoo, regardless of the perfect pregnancy I've had, and regardless of the miracle of me even getting pregnant in the first place, I feel ripped off because I probably can't follow this through til the end the with blood, sweat and swearing in a non medicalised environment, culminating in the feeling that one is pooping a watermelon. I don't want to give birth in a sterile environment. I don't feel like a cesarean is even giving birth. I don't want my lower half so numb that it no longer exists. I don't want to be surrounded by machines and monitors and anonymous people in facemasks. I'm not scared of labour and delivery. I'm terrified of having a cesarean. Terrified, and in the meantime, I'm even more terrified of losing this baby. I have been all along, only now it feels like a rational fear.

And more than being informative, am I also not the most cheerful cupcake you've come across today?

Now, while my last call for good thoughts kind of died in the arse (Thankyou though, to Naddy, for always being here. You have no idea how much that means to me *wipes tear from eye*) , I hope I can still to appeal to whoever is reading to ask if there's a spare good thought you wouldn't mind tossing our way. Also, if anyone is into psychokinesis, would it be too much to ask for a 'move that cord away from the baby's neck' wish too? I promise to make an announcement if it works.

fame

and my most recent claim to it is that I'm the only client my acupuncturist has had whose breech baby didn't turned within twenty four hours of the first treatment. I've had three, oy. (and that'd be treatments, not babies...)

I see my OB tomorrow, so if the cumulative effects of the acupuncture have turned the baby right side up (which is upside down) we'll know then. If it hasn't turned, we're going to manually turn it. Or rather, he is, and I'm going to lie there in a Ventolin haze while Chris goes to work. Now, it isn't without risk, and a certain percentage of babies turn right back again anyway, so if anyone is reading, please, please wish us both a fuckload of luck because I believe in the power of remote luck wishing. :)

When I woke up this morning, the baby was having a field day moving and kicking and bouncing around- things that, as an aside, it hardly every fucking does, and has just taken to doing now that it's about to hit the eject button anyway - and I realised how much I'm going to miss being pregnant. This has literally been the time of my life.

Looking back on these last few months, it has been hard, but I see that only when I look back and dissect the days. What I remember most and most easily, and what I still feel, is an overwhelming sense of wonder and joy. It eclipses everything, even the hardest parts. It even softened the grief of trying to reconcile how a man could abandon his own child out of disdain for me. I mention this, not because I want to be the recipient of any 'aw, poor you' thoughts, but because I get a kick out of letting random people know what a dipshit ol' boofo is. It's still a tough one though, not the grief bit because, pfft, I don't give a shit about him and anyway, his behavour amuses me, in a wry sort of way. The toughness lies in the reconciling bit, where the issue is in how I go about giving my child every opportunity to establish a relationship with its father, with no influence from me or my feelings for that fuckwad (and as you can see, I'm not doing so well with that last bit yet...), and with, to date, a father who is being the fuckwad I referred to earlier.

The other challenge has been how I can face poverty again after finally getting myself out of debt and edging toward a career after a lifetime of nothingness, without feeling I've failed in some way. On the one hand, I feel my life dramatically changed from the course I'd so judiciously set, while on the other, I realise this child is a direct result of the efforts I've made. Still though, and despite this sage reasoning, I feel I've taken the easy way out and chosen motherhood over working toward meeting my goals. You see, I didn't have to work hard to achieve this, so in my arsebackward mind, it must mean I'm lazy and have no direction. Commence eye rolling now. Thankyou.

And my point is....lost somewhere in this progesterone haze. I think it was that I really enjoy being pregnant, but I got sidetracked by, you know, stuff. The end. Or not. Let me get back to you.

dig me

35 weeks-ish pregnant last Saturday, and ready to par-tay! Or go to a wedding. Whatever.

*warning* the following link contains images that may be offensive to some viewers, so click here at your own risk.

It was a really great night, the end.

(and it didn't matter a whit that, along with the the groom's twelve year old nephew, I was the only remotely sober person on the premises)

The wedding held the next morning was also great, even after having had only three hours sleep the night before and then driving for miles to find the venue, a tour which wasn't helped AT ALL by the road closures and subsequent detours that were not listed on the damn map, and even when, once again, I was the only sober person within miles of the wedding cake (which by the way, was awesome).

tra la la la la?

It's exactly one month til Christmas folks.

*thud*

got tan?

I got a spray on tan yesterday.

I look just like Jennifer Aniston fercrisake, but fatter, and apart from looking nothing like her at all, I also look a lot less, you know, *draws circles around ear with index finger*.

My diary is pretty sad (but let's go with calling it, 'introspective', okay?) so you could go postal in there and not even find a social event throwing itself onto the floor, much less find one standing proud and ripe for a potshot, but this weekend? Two weddings. Two. God.

I barely have enough clothes when I'm NOT pregnant to fulfil these social obligations, so now we're looking at my personal rendition of 'Impossible Dream'. Hence the tan. I look so fucking Malibu Barbie, that it won't matter for shit what I'm wearing.

Ooh! Which brings me to a mother story.

Tonight is the wedding we're both going to, and after clearing the ensemble with the groom's mother ('Perfect!'), the plan is to wear a long black top with spaghetti straps over a (if I can still squeeze into it) long black skirt with splits on either side. Sling a low belt under the weebs, fight my way into a pair of strappy black sandals and wullah! I'm fit for a night dancing in a cage! Or a funeral (which, given my ideas on marriage...*ahem*) the beach, which is where the ceremony is taking place.

Mum has, in the meantime, brought some of her old clothes for me. You know, to hang around the house is (She's done this as long as I can remember. I kind of have ample shit to hang around in, so this logic never computes with me. Personally, I think she's a Munchausens By Proxy hoarder) . She'd thrown in two new items, sans tags, but thinking they were mum's cast offs too, I politely declined as they are SO not anything I'd ever wear, not even if I was flying high on PCP. She's done this my whole life too though, bought things for me which are her style, her size, her everything. Once when I was like, 35 kilos, she bought me a pair of size 12 Moschino jeans, so of course, she ended up wearing them. (Aha! The Grande Planne) I honestly believe she believes she's buying things for me, but because I'm 'so difficult to buy for' (read: an ingrate) she gets them. Her piece de resistance was the 'what do you want for your birthday darling*' incident, which was followed closely by the 'I looked at what you wanted, but I didn't like it, so I bought you this. Happy Birthday!' incident. 'This', by the way, was a gold rope necklace worthy of Mr T, when I'd expressly said 'a bracelet please ma, because I don't wear necklaces'.

But I digress.

These two items? 'Cost me $275 and I bought them for you!!' . Also, 'You want to wear something nice to the wedding!!' and 'Why don't you ever wear lipstick?!!'. Yes, most of what she says involves at least two exclamation marks.

I was with her for one hour, and in that time, collated enough data to keep my psychiatrist interested for years, and that's without mentioning the part when my sister-in-law answered the door, or the bit where my brother came home.

Does anyone else think throwing myself off a cliff is a logical solution?

Mum is staying with my brother. She thinks for a night or two, I want to say she's not stepping foot in my home. Anyway, I knocked on the door yesterday, and my sister-in-law answered with a curious 'yes...?'.

She didn't recognise me. Sure, my middle bits are bigger than ever, but good grief. What kind of shit is that? Oh, I'm not offended, hurt or precious about it or anything. It's fucking hilarious. I had to tell my own SIL who I was. Bwah!

Then, while I was counting to ten for the seventeenth time, my brother came home, smiled (or curled his lip in a represenatation of what a smile could look like), and made some gesture with his hands indicating soething about having a big belly, and I had no idea what to say or do, so I panicked and said very little. I'm intimidated by him, but I still should've been more polite. When he left the room, I said something to that effect to mum, who said 'Well, you weren't very nice to him'. No, I wasn't, and I felt bad about it. In retrospect though, and not that his bad behaviour justifies mine, but ten seconds of my blind panic hardly eclipse his twenty years of ill treatment of me.


*shut up, part deux

okay then,

let's scratch that bullshit about my mum and I getting along.

Monday, I found out that the weebee is still breech. Ordinarily at 34 weeks, this isn't a big problem as the kidlette typically has enough room to do a nose dive in time for its big day. Things rarely go typically for moi, so when my OB prodded the bump, he went 'oh my' as apparently I really do have abs of steel, and because of them, the weebs is likely to have a time of trying to turn if it waits too long.

Before I continue, a word about my OB, who is but one more Chris in my life, and there are already thousands of them. Dude thinks like me more than I do. Everything I want for this birth, he's been doing for years already. Unlike most OBs, he hands the control right back to us wimmen, and even though he's touted as a high risk maternal specialist, he believes his job is to allow us to do ours, to coach us if need be, and to catch the baby. He also belives that, left to our own devices, we know what to do, and we do it well. At first I figured they must all be like him, that obsterics was different from my perception of its practioners, until I said some waffle about 'my doctor bla bla bla' to a midwife, who immediately guessed I was talking about Chris, as his views are so outstanding that even the midwifery group think he's marvelous (news in, midwives aren't generally fond of OBs)

Per essempio: Chris doesn't routinely do episiotomies. He has maybe four situations in which he will, but otherwise prefers not to as natural tears heal better - and after all, our bodies know where to tear and how much to do so. Other OBs, word has it, take a look and cut where it's convenient for them. (also, my eyes are watering at the disturbing visuals which may, one day soon, become my reality)

He also prefers to avoid caesarians, breech presentation or not, as the baby can turn at any time, even at the last possible moment. Like me though, if the baby is in distress, he's all about ripping that sucker out and saving its life. Other than that, no. Meanwhile, other OBs love the predicability afforded by yon elective slashiness to deliver a breech baby.

I'm seriously all gooey eyed over this scrumptious man.

So this breech thing. Usually sometime after 37 weeks, if the baby hasn't turned, Chris will consider manually turning it, but due to said abs of steel, if my baby hasn't turned by 36 weeks, we're going to turn it then. In the meantime, I've been sitting with my bum in the air and my head on the ground (not because I'm a kink (well...) but because it's meant to dislodge the weebs from my pelvis so it has room to do the flippedy do), and swimming and doing handstands on the bottom of the pool. Aside from anything else, this being breech deal is killing me. Having a head jammed in one's diaphragm is not condusive to an adequate oxygen supplies.

Oh, and I nearly fainted when he suggested that a really good way to avoid manually turning the weebee was to try acupuncture. I mean, I knew I'd be asking about it, but I didn't expect him to suggest it first. So while there's a small chance (like an eeenie weenie not even documented type chance) I'll go into labour, I lined up an appointment and will be going in today.

On Monday though, I called mum (and can anyone else see the neon light above my head flashing the word *sucker!*?) and mentioned the breech, the doctor, the turning, and the acupuncture. Of course mum's idea of 'being involved' is to shriek 'why don't you just have a caesarian?!!'

Apparently 'because I don't want to' isn't an adequate answer, and nor is 'and neither does my doctor'. Her reply? 'Why are you always so defensive?!'

Then she hammered me with the her usual accusation of 'You're talking too fast!! You're talking too fast!!'.

At that point, I commenced rolling my eyes and making the necessary preparations for banging my head against the wall.

Having successfully dulled my senses, I kindly (no, really) told mum that she needn't hurry here, that I was fine, and that we're both stressed enough (exhibit A being this phone call) so relax, take her time, etc.

What I wanted obviously (and typically) didn't mean diddly squat to her, as evidenced by the e-mail she sent to her 'darlings*' (that'd be me and fucknose, my bro') on Wednesday evening, to announce her arrival this morning at 9.40am. That's it. That's the message. So until I subjected myself to the verbal equivilant of an anal probe called her last night, I had no idea of her plans, which are that my sister in law will pick her up and that 'I might stay at FN's tonight...' Might? MIGHT?! She told me she WOULD.

Initiate panic stations.

Oh yeah, about her intial plan of arriving on Wednesday, which she told me about last Wednesday? Well, without saying anything to me about it, she cancelled that idea. Is it just me, or is it that I should be FUCKING PSYCHIC, but isn't it polite to keep people informed of when you're NOT coming to stay, once you've told them you will?

I forgot about Tuesday though, when I had Kinesiology for baby turning- and how's this for cosmic something or other? My kinesiologist, who is booked MONTHS in advance, called out as she had a cancellation, and did I want to come in? Did I what?! During the session, weebee, who is ordinarly the quietest baby in the world, wriggled up a storm, and by the end of the session, had unjammed it's (98th percentile sized) head from my ribs and moved sideways, leaving me with an ability to breathe and greater faith in ooobie doobie things I can't understand. I figure that, with today's acupuncture, we should be home and hosed for a cepahilic presentation.

Wish us luck.




*shutup

Seriously people

what is the name of that show? 'Heaven' something? It's been driving me nuts all day.

speaking of mothers

which I wasn't but anyway, mine is arriving next Wednesday.

I'm scared.

I mean, we've been getting along well since she found out I'm carrying the latest model bee, but phone versus living in my house? I'm used to living alone, I'm used to being alone - I like it even - and this is the last few weeks I'll ever be alone again.

I'm scared I'll feel unsettled with her here, and I'm scared she'll feel rejected.

I'm not used to being a daughter and I'm not used to having a mother. I haven't experienced either in over twenty years.

I feel bad for her too, because I'm not all excited about her imminent arrival. It's not that I don't want her here. I do, but I don't know how I'm going to handle it, and I'm worried mum already feels unwanted.

She doesn't want to stay with my brother because he's an arsehole, but she's going to split her time between his place and mine, for me, not for her. She feels unwanted by him too because he's an arsehole.

Maybe it's pregnancy hormones, this feeling so sad for mum that her family didn't turn out like - what's that show on TV, the one with the preacher and his fecund wife, who obviously get it on a lot, because they have several children raging in age from Hot Older Brother to Cute Twin Boys, who all act out but who are always there for each other, resulting in a Christian message subliminally contained in every episode? - them, but I don't think so. Even at my most bitter, I've felt sad for her at how things turned out.

And evidently, I'm a more balanced than I thought, as when mum told me her opinion of my brother had changed, and when a mutual friend told me that mum had told her (are we keeping up?) that mum felt she couldn't stay with him as he's been so awful to me, I wasn't glad. I would've thought most siblings would rejoice when their mother, who had always thought their brother shat diamonds, realised they were the golden child and the other child sucked. When mum told me of her fractured vision of him, I honestly wished she could hold onto her dreams of him for ever, so that she'd never know what a fuck he really is. :(

The Battle Of The Bulge

an alternative title being Much Ado About Nothing?

24 weeks versus 33 weeks

so anyway

this is my new car:

click, expand, etc

Yes it's a bad photo and my car coould be presented more appealingly with say, a naked woman draped on the bonnet and from an angle where you could actually see the damned thing (car and woman both) but please be noting the wet ground. It's raining like a motherfucker here and I wasn't about to ruin my 'do for your viewing pleasure. Also, yes, I know that I've joined the ranks of the fucking arrogant 4W drivers. I hate me too though, and now I hate everyone, because everyone hates me now because of the car I drive, so why not hate them back harder?

This was my old car:

click if you love Jesus!

I drive past it most days, not because I'm a yearning fool, but because the caryard where it is now isn't far from where I live, but it's okay. I've stopped crying about it now, mostly because I'm fickle and as much as I hate 4Wds, or probably because I hate them so much -which I really, really do, because they are stupid, big, fat idiot off road vehicles that are being driven (badly) on suburban streets, usually by stupid, big, fat, idiots, aka soccer mums *ahem* - I'm loving sticking it to their drivers in an if you can't beat them, join them-esque kind of way.

Also, in this bigger and taller car, I'm less stressed by the plague of morons commandeering the streets. Seems driving my other car was synonymous to suffering Short Man Syndrome (everyone, wave hello to the baby's father!) Seems driving a car waaaay lower that everyone else got to me, so there it is. I'm a cliche. Just so you know, that doesn't mean everyone else wasn't ever an idiot. They were. Still are even. It simply means that I don't have to tolerate them from a lesser height.

All in all, and despite feeling my heart was going to break when I sold my old one (so not normal, aibee) I'm liking this new car, and so is my cat:

click because you can!

How cute is Hollie? Hotdang, I love that little critter. What I do not love however, is her fur. On her it's acceptable, but on the everywhere else it is, not so much so. In fact, hate, okay? Hateyhate. Per essempio, I have this polar fleece (which as an aside, I want to be buried in, because polar fleece=cosy like a hug, thankyou) jacket that I keep well away from the cat, but last I looked, the damn jacket is still covered in her stupid fur, and all I did was take it out the wardrobe and whisk it in through the house at warp speed, so as not to spend time collecting random and floating cat hair, and into the car and onto another premises that is totally sans car frikkin' fur. So yes, it's everywhere. It's already in my new car forpetesake, and while she sits on it, Hollie has never been in it, so unless there's some hijinks I don't know about going on around here after hours, why the freaking fur!?? This freakout is not brought to you care of the nesting fairy, because I'm so not there yet. In fact, I can't see myself ever nesting (not that I'm not clean and tidy or anything, I'm just too tired to be OCD about it) but I do believe I may be suffering a nesting variant, one that only notices cat fur. The pity of it is, I really couldn't be fucked doing anything major about it. I mean, I could vaccuum everyday, but seeings as how I hate that bastard machine (so much so that I dumped it on its idiot head the other day when it was dumb enough to get itself tangled up in its own cord, GOD! and now the off button doesn't work), no. I do swiffer most days, but woe, tis not enough. I'm going to have to go with turning Hollie into a Brazilian cat....

About that wet ground in the first picture. We've had more rain this past week or so than we've had all winter. (for those of you playing along at home, it's spring here, not autumn)(why do you call autumn fall? Is it because the leaves fall down, in which case, why 'spring'? (are seasons written as pronouns or what?) If I was religiously inclined I'd be building myself a freakin' ark. I mean, it's so heavy that it comes down and you'll be all 'oh my gawd! That rain is SO heavy!', and then it doubles. This morning, we had hail the size of, I have no idea because I was inside the gym listening to it, but word in was that these hailstones were BIG. Which while we think BIG means BIG, it probably means 'pah, what hailstones?' somewhere else, but still, we're drowning here man. Seriously.

I had all these other things I was going to write about. Things like waking up in the middle of the night and freaking out because the Baby Has Not Moved In Days, so getting the electric toothbrush and jamming it on my belly before turning it on, plan being the buzzing will wake the baby up and it will kick or something, only to have it DO NOTHING! I swear, this kid is so laid back, if it's born with a remote control in one hand, and the TV guide in the other, I won't be surprised. I was also going to write about this journal thingy that I will not call a blog, because that woke me up in the middle of last night too. I used to write stuff here for me, then when I found out I was pregnant, I shared the address with people I thought would be interested. What I didn't expect was a big zero from so many, so now I wonder why I write at all. I write for me still, and also for those who read regularly and grace me with very appreciated feedback, but still, I feel a bit ridiculous, rambling on to like I do, when the people I thought would be interested, aren't. I mean, it's not so much that I love talking about me, it's more that this whole making a baby thing is so wonderful, it needs to be shared. That's the hardest part about going it alone, you know. Not having someone to share it with. I mean, I'm the kind of goober who will call a friend because The moon! It looks so beautiful tonight! (I did that once and got a wrong number, so rather than hang up, I told them about the moon, and the guy was all, I'm so glad you called, thankyou! What can I say? I just love spreading the joy)(maybe I should make random phone calls and ask the recipients about how much they love my baby?)(now there's a thought)

Oh, and I woke up in the middle of the night, not because I'm angry or anything, but because I feel kind of hurt really....a lot hurt actually, what with me being a delicate petal and all.....

On a related note, my whole family ('related'? 'family'? In one sentence? Is it only amusing to me?) knows I'm pregnant. That's my brother, his wife, my uncles, their wives and partners, my nanna and my mum, but apart from my mum, who is totally going off about this baby and is being a real peach (but that's another story, suffice to say for now, thankyou ma, for my new car)(poet! etc) not one of them has said anything about it. Not a one. What brand of fucked up is that? Oddly enough, I'm pleased, because it means I win! I was right all along! They're the shitheads here, not me, tra la!

Hey, look at that! I did write about those things after all! Go me!

a bunchload of nothing

click to make bigger (the image, not my belly)

With only seven weeks to go, I find myself taking note of the 'last times' of even the most mundane activities, which with my exciting life, mostly revolves around shopping. Not shoe shopping either which, rats. Grocery shopping, which isn't technically a thrilling activity, but referring back to my exciting life, kind of is. (It gets me out the house, just like clubbing or party hopping would, but without the headfuck of shattering the dreams of the nineteen year old hell bent on picking his first older woman who he hopes can teach him 'things' (which obviously don't involve punctuation) ) Then there's ducking out to pick up a DVD. That'll never be the same either, nor will jumping in the car to take a quick trip to the beach to go for a walk.

Actually, even without packing the kid, the diaper bag, the sunscreen, the sunshades, the stroller, the sling, the god knows what else you need to go with a baby and the beach, those trips have changed already. The getting there is fine, and the packing is minimal. It's finding the appropriate attire that's presenting a problem because, for whatever reason, I feel almost pornographic, what with my rounded belly and all. Fortunately, I've been able to work through my inhibitions by chanting silently to myself "I'll never see these people again..." even though I probably will, given that each year, I see the same people at the beach that I saw the year before.

Speaking of pornographic, I was talking to Andy the other day. He's one of the members at one of the gyms I work, and after my shift finished, we set about gabbing about this and that for a good half an hour at the reception desk. When his training partner came to find him, he looked at my expandified girth, then winked at me and said "of course, he's only chatting you up because he knows you put out". Bwah! (or is that another of those 'had to be there' type stories?)

Speaking of putting out (neat segue, eh?), there's your next argument toward having a partner present during the whole pregnancy gig. I don't want to go into too much detail, so I'll just refer back to the shoe analogy, which is to say, if your partner does nothing else useful throughout your pregnancy, at least he can help you put on your shoes, except that analogy isn't working. How about this one? Pregnant, raging libido, aaaaaaargh.

Capiche?

At 33 weeks, I'm could hardly be described as sex-kitten-esque. I'm bordering on half-a-cow-esque actually, so if someone could inform my hormones of that fact, I'd be right appreciative, thankyou.

Actually, I had sex a couple of weeks ago. Bad sex, granted, but sex nonetheless (and if you ever needed one, there's your argument toward staying on good terms with your ex)(oh, and it wasn't Stef, because duh, we're not on good terms)(and aren't I the brazen hussy?), which given the state of NotGettingIttiness around here these past months, almost made it good sex-which brings me to the next bit of Way Too Much Information, but someone needs to say it because if I knew it earlier, I wouldn't have worried so much about being a freak now, and all you wimmen folk who have already had children, why didn't you warn me?!

I'm talking about undercarriages and changes in geographical formations, and that's all I have to say on that matter.

In totally unrelated news, my friend Ian, who I've known for like, fucking ever, volunteered to fix the holes in the ceiling in what is to become the baby's room. So last week, he came, he plastered (he left globs of plaster all over the house and random muddy foot rpints all over the floor) (honestly, this guy is a regular PigPen. I have no idea where he finds it, but whenever he visits, he always finds mud to traipse through my house) then he left. This week, he came, he neglected to shut the spare room door, then he sanded the living crap out of the dry plaster. Think white cloud, think all over the house. Think *banging head against (dusty) wall* I had to vacuuum the thick layer of dust off the vacuuum cleaner before I could use it to vacuum the thick layer of dust that covered my whole house. I've yet to vacuum the spare room, it being ground zero and all, so it still looks like a Christmas card in there, but without the sleighbells.

Which leds me to paint. Do we have any opinons?

The room was supposed to be painted a million years ago by my friend Dave, who I've also known for fucking ever (as an aside and to clarify, neither of these men are my exes, thankyou) and who volunteered to use his day off to revisit his old life as a painter and decorator. The logistics failed (read: while we've never had an affair, he's onto insanely jealous wife version 2 who, like ijw v1, has no idea Dave and I even know each other, so when his wife asked him to do some other shit on his day off, he couldn't say 'I'm painting aibee's house'. I've known him longer than both ijw v1 and 2, so as another aside, why do people confuse insane jealousy with love?) and Dave never made it.

And now, for your viewing pleasure, the spare room, in its pre white dust glory days:

That clean spot in the middle? Is for the baby.

Most of all, this entry comes care of the assessment I have on Tuesday, that I should be writing up today. Instead, I'm honing my avoidant personality skilz and am rambling on about this and that and other assorted stuff that the internet probably wishes it didn't know.

two points

Firstly, I'm quite aware my empathy gland is currently being under-utilised.

Secondly, I've been watching Firefly episodes on DVD these past few days, and child prodigy my arse. If River doesn't sharpen the fuck up soon, I'm going to throw my shoe at the TV screen.

Thankyou.