Category Archives: pregnancy

Surprise!

18 nights ago and unable to sleep, I found myself writing the following epistle to my unborn daughter…

 My darling Trufflette,

It’s been almost nine months since we first met you – a tiny cluster of expanding cells huddling together in absolute blastocystic beauty. I knew in that first moment that it would be you, of all our  embsicles, that would be the one to stay and complete our family -though I dared not say it out loud. I was smugly certain that, as I peed on the little white stick that would become my conduit to life as a mother of two, two little lines would appear.

But after so many disappointments, when my instinct was proved right and that lovely linear duo appeared, I was overcome and I sobbed and sobbed. (Scaring the shit out of your dad who didn’t realize my tears were those of joy but who, on further investigation of said pissy stick, quickly joined in the somewhat damp and salty celebrations.)

Of other things I wasn’t so certain. For example, after your first ultrasound I was convinced you were a boy and your brother convinced you were a shark . This was of great concern. Not that you might be a boy, I would have been cool with that. More that Casa Conception had somehow implanted the wrong embryo and some poor infertile shark somewhere was carrying a human baby. You must admit this would be a somewhat perturbing turn of events.

Nor did I know that you would have so many little surprises for us along the way.

Though I’m sure you were having a simply fab time swimming about in the pink room – beating mummy’s insides black and blue with your little ninja kicks, doing those special baby gymnastic moves that make mummy look like an extra on Alien, swinging on the umbilical cord like a fetal Tarzan (or Jane) and merrily drinking your own pee – you’ve certainly kept me on my very swollen toes.

It started when I was told that there was an extremely high risk of you having chromosonal abnormalities, information that was accompanied by demands that I undergo invasive tests that could risk tiny 12-week-old you coming into the world at all. Mama-bear mode kicked in almost on the spot.  I knew they were wrong and I fought them kicking and screaming all the way. A month and some less intrusive, though still scary, tests later and I was right again, you were just fine.

And, to my great surprise, a little girl.

Thrilled as I was  by this unexpected development, it did kinda fuck up our plans to name you Remy, which both your dad and I had thought was the perfect name for our new baby boy. (Though your nutty brother-to-be wanted the more formal “Blue Remy Rat”). Sadly, that was the last name we saw eye-to-eye on and here we are on the eve of your birth, and your dad and I still haven’t come to any agreement (though Devilboy is still putting a case forward for his preferred rodent prénom) so please  forgive me if you’re lumbered with “Number 2” for a time.

I was also surprised at how much harder it was to carry you in my ageing and weary body than it was to carry your brother and  the scares you’ve given me because of it. But I shouldn’t really have been shocked… I am getting a bit long in the tooth to be playing a game mother-nature designed for women half my age (Note to Mother Nature if you happen to be reading this: You. Are. A. Bitch)

Though this gestating a person malarkey has been a bit tough at times, I have really enjoyed having you along for the ride while you’ve been renting out the pink room. In fact, it’s been a privilege having you aboard. But I will admit that but I am very much looking forward to your disembarking the mother ship and meeting you face to face, so I can have my instincts, this time that you are utterly perfect, confirmed once more. And so, my love, that you can see for yourself just how much your dad, brother and I already love you… ”

I never had the chance to review,  finish or post this nausea inducing pap as, when the clock struck midnight, so did writers block and I put it aside for another day.

And that was my undoing. It turned out that the blockage was actually somewhere around my cervix and it cleared with forceful impact at around 5am the following morning when my waters broke and I went into early labour, yet another curly surprise from that impatient little japester in my belly as she shouted “surprise!” and demanded entry into the world, right bloody now.

And so, just a few hours of unfuckingbelievable  pain, a shed full of drugs, and an emergency caesarian later, a tiny 3kg of deliciousness arrived to validate my belief that my beautiful little girl was, and indeed is, utter perfection.

Perky little Ms. Marlo (her name became clear to us both the minute she was handed over for her first cuddle) and her uterine cohabiting shark (who are we to ruin Devilboys fantastical notions of a sharky sibling sibling?) are both doing well, as is the rest of this very blissful family.

So to my darling daughter… we’ll just have to fill in the blanks of my abandoned epistle as we get to know each other over the next lifetime. But know that it would have been signed off –  with much love,  Mummy. x

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Shaarkk!

Wow, has it really been two months since my last blog?

It’s not my fault. Seriously, the dog ate it…

Ok, so I don’t have a dog. Would you believe it was a shark? While we were at the beach. I fought to save it, I really did. I managed to tear my laptop out of its toothy jaws only for a cyclone to come and carry what was left of it away. Honest.

All right, would you believe that I’m just a very slack, very pregnant woman who has been far too lazy to put words to blog, which is a shame because there’s been so much to blog about… from holiday adventures in FNQ, to hospital adventures in RNS. And the delicious Devilboy has been on fire of late, his eccentricities escalating exponentially. But alas, my blog/brain co-ordination has short circuited.

And there really was a distraction in the form of shark, a beach and lots and lots of wind. I shit you not.

You see Devilboy’s sibling-to-be has most cheekily decided that it would be a hilarious jape to be due on Devilboy’s birthday. And given that DB has been determinedly planning (and by planning I mean nagging his mother daily) a shark infested birthday celebration for months – and that at the ripe old age of almost three, he is clueless to when his actual birthday is – we decided we would shark it up and celebrate early as opposed to attempting to host a kids party in the labour ward, which is something I think  most obstetricans frown upon. Party poopers.

So four weeks pre-three a party was planned and we chose the perfect weekend. Not only did we manage to select a weekend visited by one of the hottest days on record but one that backed it up with thunderstorms and a fairly fierce southerly change that lasted for the sum total of the duration of the party festivities.

And what better way could a 37 week pregnant woman with ankles swollen up bigger than Kanye West’s ego imagine spending her own 41st birthday than trying to prepare food for 30 adults and 15 children and to create and ice a fucking shark cake for an almost three year old demon in 41.5 degree heat – only for the weather to change and a southerly to create a sandstorm as soon as she pulls said cake out at the beach the following day?

Really does it get any better than that? Yes, I think it probably does. Shit loads.

But Devilboy really wanted his shark cake and his deranged hormonally-hyped mummy really wanted him to have it. There were tears, there was drama (all from me) but a cake was created… eventually.

And from my experience I can now share a happy homemakers tip with you all: Attempting to ice a cake with butter icing in 41.5 degree heat is like trying to ice a frigging sponge with olive oil. Try it, it’s a hoot.

This was the end result.*

And thus, there was much rejoicing. And shark wrestlng. Yay, verily

*Yes, it looks like I iced the fucker with concrete but I swear no children were harmed in the consumption of said fanged cakey confection.

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Festy season

Question of the day:

What sort of arse allows their 2 1/2 year old to lock local themselves in a festy public toilet at a train station?

Answer:

The kind of arse that is admitting to her maternal failings in this post.

Thank the festive fairies for the very kind (and slim) lady who, upon seeing my bulging belly and clearly understanding a thing or two about physics, shimmied under the privvy door and rescued my dippy Devilboy from an eterntity locked in toilet hell.

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Say hello to my little friend…

I am rather chuffed to reveal that the reason for my recent bloggy silence is that I’ve been far too busy sticking my head down a toilet bowl pretty much continuously for the past three months to really commit to anything else.

After a ridiculously traumatic twelve months of playing IVF Roulette we had finally gotten the hint that no amount of uterine redecorating, fertility iconography, needles, drugs, careful cajoling or desperate pleading was going to entice any self-respecting embryo to hang about in my shoddy womb for nine months and we were prepared to accept the sad reality and throw in the reproductive towel.

But just to spite our hard fought decision, seven has proven to truly be the luckiest of lucky numbers for us. Our septimal round of pin the embryo on the uterus, with our very last little embryonic ice cube, worked (talk about cutting it fine, I think our emby’s may have watched too many crap Hollywood movie endings) and we are now most pregnant.

I’ve been a 24/7 nausea machine since around week three, am so exhausted that my efforts of communication have been reduced to a series of laboured blinks and grunts, occasionally interspersed with raging hormonal tantrums. And while we are ecstatic to the point of dribbling lunacy, getting to this point hasn’t been without a few further hick-ups including a rather foolish tumble down the stairs by the ever graceful yours truly.

But… it was a rather frightening trip down amnio lane (after testing high for risk of chromosomal disorders) that has had us most concerned and protectively sitting on our news. Not so much in fear of something being wrong with our precious cargo but in fear of the risk of miscarriage that amnio’s like to accessorize with.

Happily, we’ve been given the all clear and bouncing bub number two is, quite freakishly, due to meet us on his big brothers third birthday.

The ever loony Devilboy is particularly excited by his imminent birthday present as, having witnessed the ultrasounds of his sibling to be, he has concluded without a shadow of a doubt that I have a “tiny little shark… and a rainbow” in my tummy. Dad of Devilboy and I also find this exciting as giving birth to either of these will guarantee such fame and fortune from selling the rights to our story to News of the World that we’ll rake in at least enough to cover all the frigging IVF expenses. “Woman gives birth to shark… and rainbow” now, that’s a headline – in fact, there might even be a book and movie rights in it.

As I type away our “tiny little shark” is happily swimming away amongst the rainbow that is my uterus and we three (and a bit) are very, very happy and are very, very pleased to finally be able to share our news with our friends.

Hurrah!

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you’ve got mail

Dear Mum,

Since you asked so nicely… I’ll take the room.

Say hello to dad and my big brother.

See you soon.

Love,

Snowflake

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Mini M.

The Truffle is a male of the species… and a very handsome one at that!

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Pregnant Pause

It has been a very long ‘pregnant pause’ since my last post. I was knocked over by the dreaded lurgy for weeks, which, when added to the normal pregnancy symptoms of nausea, tiredness and headaches have left me pretty well spent.

The lack of being able to take anything for it meant it really dug in but I feel almost normal again. The brain is slowly starting to kick back in and stringing sentences together is once more an option… just. I’m 17 weeks along now and am allegedly in the ‘glowing’ energetic stage, except that I am neither glowing nor particularly energetic… more pasty, spotty and still quite easily tired. I still have a hideous cough leftover from the flu and I have to wonder if poor Truffle is already suffering from shaken baby syndrome by my constant hacking but I’ve been told he/she is fairly oblivious and will be just fine.

The best news is that my 24 hour nausea has now gone completely, thank gods.

I have started to feel flutters in my lower abdomen which are apparently the Truffle ‘quickening’ and saying ‘hi’ as he/she redecorates and makes the necessary extensions to the pink room. With all the pulling and yanking going on in my ligaments I’d say these are some fairly major renovations and I expect my next ultrasound will show a multi level uterine mansion with a deck and a pool.

All the flutterings are quite exciting and I’ve taken to having in depth conversations with the Truffle about everything from federal politics and French literary greats to what we want for dinner that evening but I just get the same bubbly fluttering reply to whatever I’m talking about. The skills of communication of our little truffle will no doubt improve greatly when he/she is actually born. 😉

People’s reactions as they find out about the pregnancy have been peculiar and mixed to say the least.

Our parents are thrilled, mine in their normal low key but loving way (if my folks were any more laid back they’d be horizontal) but the in-laws are beside themselves and literally giddy with excitement. My mother in law are calling from England more frequently and sending gifts already. She is baby obsessed. And it is very sweet and very lovely.

My self absorbed brother, has yet to actually directly acknowledge to me that I am pregnant. His moronic question of ‘was it on purpose?’ was via someone else. When my five year old niece, his daughter, declared with great excitement that “Aunty A. has a baby in her tummy” his only response, in front of me, was “I know” as he walked out of the room without acknowledging my presence or offering any congratulations. We are not close. I dislike him. A lot.

His lovely partner, on the other hand, has been interested, excited and lovely.

Our friends have been the most perturbing though. Whilst most have simply been very happy for us there have been odd reactions too.

Single friends worry that I won’t want to play with them anymore.

A friend of M’s with small children has welcomed us to the “the Club” and said that now we’ll be able to see each other more often which offends me a little as it implies we weren’t welcome in their lives when we were childless.

Other parents spend hours regaling us with tales of how our lives are over now. Yay! That’s a positive spin. Oddly, these same parents are still breeding so it can’t be all that bad.

My favourite comments have been from a small handful of people who have gone the “But aren’t you too old?” route… to which I reply “obviously not” and they respond by telling me that my child will be retarded, have all manner of illnesses, be premature and/or late and that its really irresponsible to be starting a family at my age.

For fucksake, I’m 37 not 73. These comments are unwelcome, uninformed and are generally responded to with a not so gentle “fuck right off idiot”.

There has been more than one friend whose response to our news is to demand “You have to make me godparent” which is frankly bizarre as
a) I thought we were meant to make that request not the other way around
b) we don’t believe in ‘God’ per se, and
c) M and I have always said we don’t believe in the whole Godparent as a token thang.

Regardless of our beliefs we would obviously prefer not to be put in the awkward position of having to say no to people we really care about and risk offending them. Besides, can you imagine with all the deities floating around in our place the iconic riot we’d have on our hands if we had a single secular ‘God’ parent as opposed to a ‘Ganesha/Buddha/Shiva/Ixchel/Kwan Yin/Bast etc etc Parent’. Our easy solution is that we are not having ANY Godparent/guardians or whatever else you want to call them. Nada. Zip. We may have a welcoming/naming soiree (when the in-laws come out) but it will be very non traditional and very much on our terms.

Then there are the friends who become overly familiar and think that suddenly it’s ok to start feeling up my belly and getting in my personal space. It would seem pregnancy makes one public property which is a little off putting to a person who suffers from tactile issues with non life partners.

Only a few new parents we have spoken to haven’t immediately descended into negatives, these will be the parents we will use as our preferred parental role models.

Tomorrow we’re off to the OB for an update and in just 11 days we get our big scan to find out if it is a boy or girl truffle. So exciting… I now can’t decide which I’d prefer, which is great because it means I’ll be ecstatic either way.

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