I am television's bitch.
I think I've mentioned before that I work in a media-related job. Not that I mention this when asked about my suitability for paid market research. I consider any marketing company silly enough not to check the job title in my email signature when I respond to their email requests doesn't deserve to cull me from its $70 focus group. And frankly
, since they did THIS all bets are off.
I digress, the point is that part of my job is to know what's happening in the news and, while I'm lucky to work in a vaguely cerebral field that actually matters to newspapers, everyone who's anyone knows that the only news that counts in politics is what finally makes it to the telly.
Most of the time, for people like me, this is a matter of attempting to manage the appearance of bad news. Occasionally, a few times a year, we have a bit of glittery good news and I get to say, 'Quick, look kids, Mummy's on the tv!'
Generally, in either case, by virtue of trying to get home and pretend to be a real mother I'm actually sitting on the bus when the news is on and waiting for the SMS alert to beep through on my phone and tell me what all my labours have come to on the tube.
Actually, the fact that it's sometimes my job to watch tv is not really the point.
The point is that we spent way too long in the Supacentre on this past rainy Sunday and walked out with a modest financial commitment to a very tax-effective lease on a BLOODY ENORMOUS LCD television which will spend 98 per cent of its time playing Shrek and The Incredibles... As I left the house this morning, the sparkle twins were watching Sesame Street on, as they called it, "the big movies". One asked me for popcorn and the other asked if I could please turn the day off.
But in the other two per cent of Mega Telly's life? When I have to watch the news? My glittery stories will never have looked so shiny.
"Quick kids, come see! Mummy's the Mega Telly's bitch!"
You know the next most annoying thing to people telling you whether you're having a boy or girl?
is people telling you:
- who your 10 day old baby looks like (hear this! our 10 day old baby looks a) like a 10 day old baby and b) like Jasper)
- how tall your baby will be
- what colour eyes they will have (don't even get me started on the medical impossibility it is to hypothesise on this...)
- that your baby is a 'good' baby. Sure, by this point Felix would only sleep for a maximum of 45minutes and his favourite hobby was screaming, but the notion of good and bad being attributed to a baby makes me really quite cranky.
if the makers of baby monitors planned for them to be able to project the sound of my son's farts through the house? The baby, he can toot.
Hooray, and Eeek, and Ouch.
You're amazing, Kim, and not only because of the whole baby number three being here spontaneously thing (Hooray), and not only because of the oops, waters broken but I have to pick up the kids from school things (Eeek), and not only because of the scar tissue to rival the Western Front thing (Ouch)
you can write about it!
Quick whinge update here: started work 5.30am and finished 9.15pm... Acronym season is halfway over (apologies for cryptic work reference) but according to a phone call I got late tonight it's just possible the worst is yet to come. Tomorrow will tell.
And yet, as I sit here typing, and the fridge motor kicks in and I look up at the space on the corner of the fridge where we used to use whiteboard markers to keep track of who had fed which baby at what time, and as I think of Kim doing two-hourly feeds, and handling growth spurts and never ever really getting a break because this? Is Not Baby Number One...
Well, folks, putting it all into perspective, if I could just bring my non-newborn, night-through-sleeping kidlets along with me I would be almost glad to do a 15 hour day at the office!
What else? so proud of my Dad for giving up years and years and years of domestic driftwood today. I wonder if he's read this, where I fess up to an epiphany that had me give away a thing that was taking up space and not doing anything more than generating memories?
By the bye, if you ever wondered about my mtc sign-off, this is also explained here.And finally, since Thursday is Library Day in our blog's corporate memory, here's a library day thought: if you read a book by consuming a page or two at a time before falling asleep with it over your face, can you really say you've read it?
And so it came to pass
Last week, on Wednesday, 19 October 2005 at 7:01pm, I gave birth for the third time. It hurt like hell and according to the surgeon who stiched me up, I have a "battleground of scar tissue" to prove it.
The Monday preceding the Wednesday was marked by semi-regular early labour pains - the irritating period pain ones which grip your lower gut and back like a vice at regular intervals to remind you that you are a woman incase there was any early-onset alzeihmers. They were about every 10 minutes from 5am to 9pm-ish. They - naturally for me - went nowhere.
The Tuesday saw them go on a picnic or something.
The Wednesday in question came along and was marked by a return of the pains and just some weird 'sense' that something was different. Of course I paid little attention to this as I think such women's intuition is a load of crap and had resigned myself to the fact the kid wouldn't come out until the needle was in my vein and the drugs on their merry way.
My only acknowledgment of these pains was that of course they would 'do' something on that day as I had booked in to get my hair cut and - well - considering the last cut and colour had been when I was about 5-6 weeks pregnant, you get that me at the hairdressers is a really.big.deal. It's also something I spare no expense on - hence the very long lead times in between visits.
I sat there getting my hair cut by the biggest straight spunk in Sydney - Toby - at his tres funky salon Mantelpiece and thought - I look different today. Again, a weird 'feeling' type moment. The pains were also there and getting quite annoying.
Anyway, with my spiffy new cut and way-cool colour(s) I was heading home with enough time before collecting children to stop at the fishmongers for some bream fillets and the supermarket for some veggies for dinner. At home I put together some afternoon tea bundles for the boys as I was collecting them then heading down to Chef's work to pick him up. This is one of those weird logistic things we do in that he works a split shift on Wednesday so me picking him up means he gets a break and gets to take the car back for the evening shift. (I hope you are all as riveted by the minutae of my life as I am.)
So - I go to the toilet before leaving to pick up the boys and man, it feels 'heavy' down there. But, no heavier than it has felt in the past. I go out to the car, get in, and gooosh. Part of me felt like calling "there she blows" but the other part went "is that wee?" Of course I knew it wasn't but once you are officially the size of a whale, such indiscretiosns as wetting yourself are not taht hard to realise. Anyway, my next thought was - get out of the car. So then I just stood in our driveway wondering what to do as amniotic fluid flowed down my legs.
About 10 calls to Chef later, I finally got him on the line. I was sitting on the toilet and resorted to calling the work landline as for the first time EVER he wasn't answering his mobile. One of the waitresses who answered asked if I was OK and after I said yes, she said she thought I might be having a baby. When I answered in the affirmative the squealing? You could hear it across town.
Anyway, I still had the reality that a) Chef was 30 minutes away without a car, b) Mum was at an inservice (ie not at the school where she teaches and Felix attends) and c) it was now 2.50pm and two little boys were expecting their mum to pick them up from school.
I got changed, completely forgot towels, got Chef to ring the schools and arrange for someone bring the boys to me in the car rather than me to them at the gate/classroom, and rang the hospital to tell them I was on my way. Felix's first comment to me was "are we going to have the baby today?" and then "I can't believe it, the baby's going to come today." By Oscar's school the I had three quite intense contractions that scared me a little - not that the baby would come before the hospital but on my ability to drive all the way there (its 20 minutes in the middle of the night and anywhere up to 45 in traffic - of which, at 3.30pm was already very much an issue).
I got back on the phone to Chef (thank GOD for mobiles) and arranged to meet at a certain point. At this time I'd like to thank Cam, a regular at Chef's restaurant who offered to drive him. God knows what they were doing because they took too long and after waiting for about 20 seconds and seeing the three lanes of solid traffic, decided to keep going. Somewhere in here I got stuck behind a tabletop truck, crane and tree-lopping truck all going 60 along the Wakehurst Parkway, where the speed limit is 80.
Between that, the traffic, the slow husband, the kids asking if the baby was coming now? now? what about now? and the fairly continual gushing of amniotic fluid onto the car seat and indeed, over the front of the seat onto the floor (I'm serious, I can produce amniotic fluid faster than Jesus turned water to wine) and the sheer adrenalin of the knowledge you're about to have a baby and exhileration that my body finally did what it was meant to for once meant I was in a bit of a state at this stage.
So, after weaving through traffic to impress the keenest WRX drivers out there, we arrive at the hospital. I park in a 15 minute spot (where the car stays for the next 7 hours), find a pashmina in the boot and wrap it around myself, not before scaring the bejesus out of an old dude walking past. Felix climbs out over my seat, giddy in excitement he got to touch "the wet seat" and Oscar has a fuss that I won't take his superlegs off in the car.
I squelch through the hospital, watching the last shreds of dignity dripping off with each wet footprint. Felix was so cute, encouraging Oscar along "Oscar, you have to RUN, Mummy's having the baby". We go up to the delivery floor and are encouraged in the right direction by the first of FOUR people to comment "wow, someone's waters have broken". No shit sherlock.
Anyway, Holly is my midwife and we're taken into our room. Felix is obsessed with all the machinery, in particular the thermometer mounted on the end of the baby cradle that has a little flippy lid that opens and shuts. Oscar has this look he gets when he's in hospitals - the one just before he goes pale, sweaty, indicated he's going to vomit and/or poo. Chef arrives about 10 minutes later and we discover that Mum had beaten us all there, being the leadfoot that she is.
The contractions are there but similar pain level and not overly regular. We agree to do the drip at 7pm if labour doesn't kick in. Its about 4.30 when that decision is made. Chef's parents arrive to collect the boys. Everyone has a grand old time and then they depart.
Around 5.30 I get up to walk around as they're getting a bit more pesky. They're every 2-6 minutes and lasting 45 seconds to a minute somewhere around this time - it's getting harder, but I can still talk throught them. Mum is sitting on the delightful little lounge reading the SMH's domain and showing me 10 million dollar properties on waterfront in Mosman. This is so typical of her - you may be in a labour but life goes on, what about this one. Chef found it highly annoying, I found it quite a good distraction.
At around 6-6.15 they came every 2-3 minutes and lasted about a minute and talking was not an option. Chef was awesome at pressure points on my back at this time. Legend. Then, they just rolled on top of each other. Later, I'm told this lasted about 15 minutes. And I don't doubt them for a minute.
Holly did an internal, just as another contraction rolled in. That had to be the singular worst pain of my life - someone's hand up my fanny, a full flight contraction and something wanting to come out as well. This was now about 6.25 - I was 5cm. And I was cranky. It wasn't good enough. I wanted to be at least 7cm and I.want.drugs. This, I announce to everyone, will be over by 8. I'm not doing it beyond 8.
I get gas for three contractions. Gas is j.o.k.e. It does nothing for the pain but gives you something else to focus on. It does make you feel completely drug-fucked, which was nice, but nothing, I repeat n.o.t.h.i.n.g. for the pain. Maybe it works if you labour for hours, but that is a hypothesis I obviously will never be able to shed light on.
The second contraction on gas Holly leaves. She is not allowed to leave, she needs to be here I inform the world.
The third contraction on gas, and I can feel Jasper's head s.c.r.a.p.i.n.g. down the birth canal. I am not exagerating, I could feel him just pummelling the hell out of there, it felt like my someone had my pelvis in their hands and were splitting it in two like you would if you were butterflying a chicken. There was a lot of earth woman gutteral yelling at this point.
I was so off my nut on gas I wasn't really paying attention to contractions, as Holly had told me to suck on it at the first sign of a contraction, and because they were so hard and fast I had no idea if it was the end or beginning or middle of one, so just sucked on it for life. His head, his 37.5cm head, took FOREVER to come out. Of course, it was more like 5 minutes, but that's as good as forever for me.
The next contraction took way too long as I was all 'just get it out' but finally those shoulders came through and there he was. 7:01pm. According to Holly, labour was officially 35minutes. I think that is a cruel joke of midwives, that you have to be in agony before they classify it as real, but hey, it means I broke Felix's 45minute labour record.
My second degree tear (ie front and back and everything in between) is healing very slowly and makes me walk even more weirdly than I was in the final days of pregnancy.
After Oscar and Felix I was all 'let's do that again", but this one I was more of the mind "I'm not sure I can go through that again" (yes, I'm 'one of those' that would love to have four kids...) and the relief on Chef's face was palbable. Ironically, now the little man is here, Chef is so smitten you can see he could entertain another one...down.a.very.long.track...
So now, my sucky little guy (who fed at 1, 3, 5, 7 and 9 tonight) who has decided maybe the bath isn't worth screaming the house down is here. My stomach is huge, with my normal wobbly belt of fat that used to sit a bit higher hanging way too low, my boobs must weigh about 3kilos each, my womens bits really h.u.r.t.i.n.g. and my new spiffy haircut has yet to be realised. But you know, as you drive along with three little men in the backseat, as Felix and Oscar get home and rush to see him, as Felix gets teary telling me he can't stand to think of Jasper on his own, none of that matters one little bit.
One week and counting
As I type our third child is a whopping 7 days, 1 hour and 23 minutes old:
This last week has been a tad surreal as I'm sure most could understand. Firstly, I'm still in shock that my body decided to do what it was meant to do and just spontaneously go into labour. Sure, three days late but I'm guessing in labourtime that's like my standard genetically programmed tendency to be chronically late to the world.
The return to the land of about 2 hours consecutive sleep at any given time has guaranteed a few random outbursts of tears and much simmering crankiness that I am - quite proudly - keeping in check. Funny how when it impacts on your kids not just your husband (as when there is only one) you don't fly off 'with that tone'. Some impressive teary moments have been:
- watching Felix just take himself off to bed on his own (normally I sing them to sleep)
- hanging out washing and realising today was going to be the first day of me doing the gig on my own (Chef went back to work today)
- Felix coming to me in tears - "when Mr Bean's car gets crushed by the tank, it makes me really sad".
- Dropping my plate last night and seeing my dinner mushed on the filthy floor...
Moments that have made my heart hurt...
- Felix telling me he had a nightmare that birds were circling Jasper and pecking at him. This is just a part of Felix's current frame of mind that just makes my heart hurt - he's so worried about something bad happening to Jasper it just takes my breath away. Today I brought stuff in from the car before bringing in Jasper, so Felix raced back out there 'to keep him company', then got teary saying to me that it makes him sad to think of Jasper being left on his own.
- Felix making a bracelet - with 6 beads on it - one for Mummy, Daddy, Oscar, Felix, Jasper and Grandmama "because that's our family and who I love the most".
- Oscar sitting virtually on top of me when I feed Jasper and just resting his hand on Jasper, ever so slightly patting him and kissing him on the head - at virtually every single feed.
- Felix picking Jasper up to stop him crying tonight as I got Oscar into his pjs - and Jasper blissing out...
Look what we made!
Mum, Dad and baby makes five
about 1 hour old
Jasper Andrew, meet Buzz Blue-eyes,
the bestest big brother in the universe.
First cuddles with OggaBoy - the biggest brother of all -
note Oscar's eyeline not swaying from the TV above my bed which,
at the time was broadcasting the movie ScoobyDoo.
Priorities people. Priorites.
There will - naturally - be a much more lengthy post with details of waters breaking, driving myself and children to hospital, "Labour - from 5cm to birth in 35 minutes", what they really mean by the term '2nd degree tear' and the truth behind the statement, "you have a really sucky baby" and how it links directly to "my God my nipples hurt".
But the boy - the cutest baby in the known universe - is showing he is gifted already by spending much of the day in various stages of either being awake or seeing just how far he can drag my nipples down the back of his throat and night posting is well, not going to happen for some time as really, as that sun sets, there isn't anything keeping me from my bed.
Reality moment #487: the land of no more than 2 hours consecutive sleep is a warped place indeed.
The Baby Bunch
Here's the story
Of a lovely lady, who was living with two very lovely girlsandagorgeousboyandtheProf
She had four others,
Living all together
Yet she blogged all a-lone.
Here's the story
Of another lovely lady, who was living with three boys of her ownincludingChef
All of them had hair of brown,
Like each other
And she blogged a-lone too.
Til the one day when the lady emailed and SMSed the lady
And they knew that it was much more than a hunch
That these troupes, should somehow feed a blo-og
A blog for all of us...
Yeah, yeah, I know it's awful, but it gives a little sense of the joy of the dag that got us going here at Glamorouse.
Now, for those who have asked, Glamorouse Kim and baby Jasper are back home with Kim's original three blokes and I spoke to them yesterday and yes, he is a perfect child who sleeps when he ought and eats when he should AND as a bonus, has feet small enough to fit properly into a Bonds sleepsuit.
The Bonds sleepsuit part may mean nothing to you unless you live in Australia, but "iconic baby product" sounds so impersonal, doesn't it?
So we will see the lovely Jasper soon - and if Glamorouse Kim doesn't manage to connet the dots well enough to get pics up herself,then Glamorouse Bec must visit and take the pics and do the posting, possibly from Glamorouse Kim's dictation in the comfort of her own home!
A final note tonight, and probably worth of a separate post for ego's sake alone, is a quick mention of the name Glamorouse.
This Is Not A Mis-Spelling Of Glamorous.
Thinking about putting to Kim the retro Glam-O-Rouse option, only because I am a Spelling Queen Bee and have an itch I can't scratch over the possible perception out there that we just added an e by mistake, and not because of the play on 'rouse' and 'rousing'.
Question: gentle reader, should I put it to Glamorouse Kim that she become Glam-O-Rouse Kim or just deal with my spelling/punning phobia in private?
Gorgeous Boy and Evil Sparkle
Overheard three-year-old twins in lounge room this morning:
Him: "It's a ant"
Her: "It's a cwockwoach"
Him: "No, Chloe, it's A Ant."
Her: "It's a cwockwoach."
Him: "NO -it's A ANT!"
(pause, I imagine there was a closer physical examination, then calmly:)
Her: "No. It's a cwockwoach."
Him: "NO CHLOE!!! IIIIT'S AAAAA AAAA-AAAAANT!!!"
Him:(desperate for reaction)
"IIIIT'S AAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAA-AAAAA-AAAANT"
Her: (like it was always obvious) "Oh, yes, dat's a ant."
Case closed. God help their future spouses, they're well past the old married couple thing.
PS - In the interlude brought on by Kim's brief but understandable absence in the maternity ward, and my frequent and unexplainable (as opposed to inexplicable) absences in work overload mode, expect more quick and easy domestic moments like this...sorry!
Jasper Andrew is here
19 October 2005
9 pounds 7 ounces
53.5 centimetres long
We already love him, even though we have not met him.
Kim is, of course, a star and a gift to motherhood.
Arrgh Me Hearties!
Who doesn't love a pirate?
Watch-blogging Pirates of the Caribbean and lovin' that Johnny Depp action.
Patriotic as I occasionally am... I am, after all, only female flesh and blood and therefore I say there ought to be a law that movies can only be released in Australia if they have Johnny Depp in them. I mean, apart from the immediate improvement in foreign films, imagine how much even a Depp eyebrow would do for home-made crap like The Castle?
sorry I've been AWOL, but, as Kim knows, that other acronym started this week and after a 17 hour day at work yesterday I just wasn't up for much keyboard action.
I'll be back, but not yet, Spaniard, not yet.
ps (and rest assured I keep checking in on you, Kim!)
Further update on the world of superheros and the like
(the next chapter after revealing where Transformers live)
Felix: Mum, I know how people become superheroes
Me: Really? How?
Felix: A B.I.G. astroid flies down and hits the people and they draw all their power from it and get super powers.
Me: Well, that makes sense.
Felix: Yeah, and there's different colours too - so some get blue powers, some get red, and yellow, and green...
This followed a conversation where he informed me he wished he was Kody, a boy in his class who is gifted and talented (and no, not a diagnosed by pushy parents or gloating grandparents, just an extremely bright little button who was doing his 5 times tables at the beginning of the year - that is, the beginning of Kindergarten. At age 5.). When I asked why Felix said, "because he's really smart and knows what 10 plus 10 equals". I'm not sure I handled the rest of the conversation at all well, just reminding me of my own mother consoling me when I cried I wasn't as smart, funny, fast or pretty as every.other.single.person.in.the.universe.
I said to him that when I was at school I used to get really anxious and worried because it seemed everyone else was better at stuff than me* - and that it took a long time for me to realise that whether I came first, finished first or got the top mark wasn't what was important. What mattered was enjoying and being part of the the process of learning, about having fun learning all the new stuff and not worrying about how good at it all I will be, then I found all these things I could do and was good at that none of my friends could do nearly as well as me. It was his interruption at * when he said "that's how I feel every day at school" that I think my heart broke. I heard it clinking into little bits. Finally I said that I knew what he was better at than anyone else, better even than Kody, he was the best at being Felix. God, talk about channelling my mother, and you know, I thought that was a suckful cop out when she said it to me. And yet, its so very very true.
one more thing
On Friday I went and saw the chic-flick In her shoes on my own. This poem is in it and I can't get it out of my head.
i carry your heart with me - ee cummings
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
One insane moment
Today I went to the funeral of an old next door neighbour. He would have been 20 next month. He killed himself by putting his belt around his neck and hanging himself on the back of the bathroom door. Noone had any idea he was sad let alone depressed enough to do such a thing. He didn't die straight away. It took a couple of days. It meant his parents got to hold his hand and say goodbye.
I sat in this church packed with close to 400 people today, my baby kicking away inside (yes, still inside). Young faces, too many young, drawn, desolate, confused faces. Pictures of him projected up onto the wall, smiling, laughing, waving, being happy, being young.
All I could think about was that this was not what this crowd of 19 year olds should be contending with. This is not a realm they should have to be experiencing. And yet, when it came time to talk about the guy called Phil, his friends stood up and spoke with grace, humility, humour and honour. They told stories about his love of surfing, his ability to get naked faster than anyone and streak anywhere, his love and focus on his friends. Over and over it was said, Phil didn't want accolades or awards, he just wanted to be a part of it. He just wanted to be in the thick of it.
His dad spoke. And cried. The energy of the church was almost overwhelming as he quoted Bob Dylan:
Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
I hadn't seen him in over 10 years, but he was born about a few months after we moved in next door. He weeed on me. I learnt how to put cloth nappies on a baby on Phil. I learnt the trick of running the pin through your hair to make it pass through the nappy more easily. I babysat him and his siblings. His sister was meant to start her HSC today.
These photos, on the wall, of the biggest blue-eyed boy as a small child, a young boy, a teenager. And now he is gone. And the world, his world, will never know why.
As his Dad said, in one insane moment...
and I'm still here.
In case my mind wasn't already being screwed with, the boys are in bed - and have been since SIX FORTY FIVE. Oscar has been asleep since as close to seven as humanly possible and Felix is now telling me 'he's ready' for a song.
Sure, it means Oscar will be up at 5, but it also means we have a whole evening of child-free-ness.
This stuff is messing with my head.
Surrealism in the suburbs
Today is my official due date.
Do you know how weird that is?
That today, officially, the incubus is meant to come out. It won't of course, because apart from Oscar's dodgy chromosome 4, everyone in this household is deficient of the on-time gene.
So now I enter the cool (albeit mentally destabilising zone) of being able to respond to people who ask, "So, when are you due?" with "oh, yesterday" or "5 days ago" or even better, "last week" and then just watch the fear flicker across their eyes as they back away ever so slowly. Mwahahahahahahaha!
And just because I've been on a high horse of late - why is it that calls from friends about how I'm tracking are absolutely fine, but the calls from family drive.me.insane. ???
Blogging is the New Crochet
A habit is forming.
At the end of a long day, and a long evening getting three lively kids settled for bed, the Prof and I often veg out in front of the tv.
At such moments, tired as I might be, my hands have always sought a task. I don't know why exactly, because I have no particular contempt for the mighty tube, but I find it very hard to simply sit and watch.
So, at various times I have knitted, crocheted, breastfed, cross-stitched, sketched, breastfed, kneaded bread, done cryptic crosswords - and more recently (when no more breastfeeding was needed) worked on the vile Sudoku.
And now, to the new habit.
The laptop blog, avec movie.
Currently watch-blogging: Kingdom of Heaven on dvd, Orlando (or Balian as some 12th century lass may know him) is sparing the life of the servant of the man he has just killed... the servant who (is fortunately fluent in English and) will take him to Jerusalem.
God, this stuff is predictable. No wonder my extremities get bored.
At least if its a boy I don't have to call it Ian or Roger
If it wasn't bad enough being pregnant at the same time as Mary-who-does-know-wrong-and-looks-stunning-ALL-THE-TIME, she's now beaten me at the push and grunt. Although I can't imagine more than a delicate line of sweat beading on her top lip being the crown of her crowning. Still, at least I don't have to call the kid Ian or Roger...thank heavens for small mercies.
Another aside - I used to get asked if the boys were twins all.the.time., as Oscar is small for his age and Felix is a beast. Felix also has his father's body shape which involves legs resembling tree stumps and the longest body in the known world. This is the child for whom a Bond's Wondersuit is nothing more than a torture outfit as the body and feet were never big enough unless he was contorted into a remarkably uncomfortable state. Which I'd do because I just coulndn't put a 4 month old in a size 1. I couldn't! Anyway, this body shape meant that when they were in a stroller or sitting down (rare) they look the same height - although there's only ever been about 1-3cm between them anyway.
But as they got older and Oscar does now look older, well I think he does, the twin remarks have dwindled. Until the latest clothing purchases, at which I bought them some outfits the same (because I knew they'd both like army shorts and there was no way I was enduring morning fights about who got to wear them) not thinking they would want to wear them at the same time. Not only do they wear the same outfit at the same time, they do so willingly. So today, we walked around Chatswood with the twins that aren't and the pregnant woman who is so.ready.to.drop.
how to make me smile
Today my sister-in-law rang me. This, combined with seeing and catching up with another friend about two weeks ago, makes me feel so grateful for my lot in life.
You see, the friend was a 'best' friend - in fact, a bridesmaid level friend, and a friend at the birth of my first child (which she wasn't but that was more for comic effect and a story to be told another time). But something happened - including a very dreadful email from her and subsequent exchange from me - that I'm not sure either of us will ever truly understand that just made being friends really hard. I hadn't seen her for about two years and we hadn't spoken for over a year. Yet when we saw each other the other week it was like one of those reunions you see on A Current Hysteria or similar program. Wonderful, lovely, spring-in-your-step kinda stuff.
Then today, very unexpectedly, my sister-in-law rang. I say my sister-in-law because she really is/was the sister I never had and while my brother left her with a four month old baby about 14 months ago, she will never be an ex anything in my life. But, in the ugliest, darkest parts of their break-up I got narky about how she was treating Mum and a few things that had been fed back to me through Mum, which of course I should have paid no heed to as I know how Mum's squewed view of the world can turn an innocent comment into the equivalent of call for a Cold War Nuclear Attack, and told her so. It was messy. Not as messy as the friend incident, but awful all the same. I found it ironic that while Mum just copped it and maintained a relationship with SIL, we stopped speaking.
So, earlier in the year, I swallowed my pride, stupidity and big mouth and wrote to them both. They covered many things but for me, most importantly told this two wonderful women that regardless of what had transpired, not a day went by when I didn't think of them at least once. I guess I just needed them to know that. Who knows why.
And now, I have them both back in my life. And that my friends, makes me smile.
That said, plans for our baby bonus...
I'm not sure what or how I'm meant to 'utilise' the bonus coming our way. I am sure there are those wise people out there who will use it to set up a bank account for their offspring, that by the time they are 18 is worth a squillion dollars and sets them on their voyage of discovery (ie drinking and random acts of a sexual nature with as many partners as possible without officially becoming a slut) or buys them the new Ford Fiesta or Mistubishi Lancer when they finish their HSC or turn 18 or whichever comes first.
Then there are the people I mentioned who will use it to buy a plasma TV. And really, considering the amount of late night television I watched pacing the house with a screaming child or feeding, I do sort of get why you would want a big flash tele to make it all seem a little less horrendous than it really is.
Then there are people like us. I swing from a mindset of financial sensibleness, which believe me, is impressively fleeting although getting better as I get older and we roll around in joy at the life that is a fortnightly reliable income - to a mindset of "oh my God think of the shoes, the SHOES (and clothes) I could buy with that!"
So here it is:
pay off large portion of Amex bill
pay off all of DJs bill and other sundry bills hanging around us for months (Bec I hear you loud and clear on those specialist doctor fees that you f.i.n.a.l.l.y. pay)
Get new glasses - I've seen Leona Edmiston now does a range of eyeglasses and well, let me say, the dress at the end of the post-baby-I'm-getting-myself-in-shape-program is a Leona. I am so seriously addicted to her clothes (as addicted as I am to Glamourpuss' range of accessories) I'd consider calling the incubus Leona if it came out a girl and well, it wasn't actually Leona (I mean what is that?). She also does shoes which literally take my breath away.
Buy the ridiculously expensive bells and whistles pram that I always wanted with the boys but that we never had the money to buy.
Buy new shoes and work clothes because lets get real, as if my gut that was a horrendous blob of jelly pre#3 is actually ever going to, well, not.
Buy the shelving for the back room, and the fabric and bedside tables for our bedroom (which, in my all-hail the great Ikea we could actually do).
Pay the Amex bill
Buy a laptop.
Oh, as I sip my second pint of Raspberry leaf tea (with two teabags in it) and watch the boys mesmerised by Terry (or is it Teddy) Savalas in some war movie (the tanks! the TANKS!) these are the things that occupy my mind.
Further thoughts on government 'bonuses'
I have VERY mixed emotions on the whole $3000 baby payment - as everyone has touched on, its such a spurious amount for a lifetime of joy, bliss and marvel. OK - you all know that's the "i'm so pregnant brain".
For those older, wiser and burnt by the "I already have kids" stick, we all know that $3000 is so incidental its laughable. People, there is a reason there is a whole naive excited subsection of the "we're having a baby!" population that refers to this payment as the Plasma TV Screen bonus. For those of us in the twice bitten three times oh-dear-god-we're-fertile camp $3,000 covers:
- about 6 weeks of daycare (? Bec - you can shed better light on this as you still live the hell that is daycare)
- 4-5 months of Oscar's speech therapy
- if you've gone private - part of your obstetrician's costs
which brings me to my main point. (For our conservative Liberal readers, you can stop now because you'll just get cranky, or read to see how the other half thinks - but send me a comment about the importance of the economic bottom line as if its a stand alone construct with no bearing/impact or reliance on human beings, the environment and an over-riding social conscience and be warned, there is nothing more scary than the wrath of a heavily pregnant woman scorned - or lectured to.) This is just another vaguely covert (I say vague because Howard - we.are.not.as.stupid.or.as.gullible.as.you.think.) gesture by our current hideous Federal government to undermine a fundamental component of the Australian political landscape and part of our ethical and moral make-up that is public - ie EQUAL - access to quality public systems such as health and education. You see - the thought process is not 'let's offer people $3,000 to have a kid because those first few months adjusting to one income (because a woman's place is in.the.home. so paid maternity leave won't EVER be on our ticket) can be tough' it's 'let's butter them up so when they get all concerned over the puritanical, draconian, highly elitest policies we want to introduce down the track, that will guarantee us rich folk really can live without looking at those have-nots or hear them belly-ache about how much it costs to live, we can say how generous we are to the.whole.population.I am guessing you all realise just how much I could go on in this vein.
Wow, so much anger, frustration and vitriol on a Saturday morning.
The Fertility Crisis: Null and Void.
Three years ago this was a meticulous insight. I looked around at my friends and almost everyone was having their third child or agonising about wanting to have a third child (hmm, Kim?)
(Next time I voice an insight, will somebody please kick me hard and make me sell it to an ad agency?)
And yet, until this year, the newspapers continued to be full of "Shock!", "Horror!", "Not Enough Babies!".
(I consoled myself, in those first, terrible months after finding we were having twins, that at least I was spared the trauma so many of my two=child friends were facing in deciding whether or not to have three! )
So the morons advising and deciding in the Federal Government, who clearly have no friends at which to look around, announced a new Baby Bonus - a non-means-tested one which was differnet to the means-tested one I missed out on altogether with my first daughter.
This new, wonderful non-means tested bonus was announced not long after I had finally managed to pay my latest, nay, LAST, obstetrician's bill. Very late.
It was really announced just in time for me and my TWINS to miss out. Yep, this baby bonus of $3000 per child was designed to encourage more people to have babies, and came into effect not too long after I paid $6000 out of pocket expenses to have my TWINS.
I am very, very, very, happy that good and deserving and wonderful people like Kim will get $3000 for this baby, yet to come. I really, really am. Also I am delighted for all the other families, especially those with more than two children. Not so happy for the fact that young Sarah Murdoch will get it for whoever Kalan's next sibling may be, however I can learn to live with that on account of I don't mix with too many millionaires.
If my TWINS and I, and my older baby too, ever meet that arsehole Johnny Howard in a shopping centre, we may just present him with an invoice for our fecund but financially fragile household.
Yep, we're cutting edge here. Overly fertile, underly financed. Thank you, PM, for fucking it all up yet again.
So, gentle reader, what's the biggest government handout you've ever missed out on?
PS - next time you feel you have too many children, check THIS out.
Things I've learnt in my first three days of maternity leave...or the things that have come flooding back from my days of a stay-at-home mum...
1. Being woken up every day at 5.14 is far far worse when you don't have to go to work as well.
2. When the focus of the morning is making lunches, as opposed to making lunches and getting yourself ready for work, it takes twice as long, is one hundred times more tedious and draws on way too much brain power as to just what can (and should) go into the lunch box.
3. Do you know just how many w.e.i.r.d. people hang out at Warringah Mall during week days?
4. I don't know where this baby drought is, but it sure isn't on the Northern Beaches or - again - at Warringah Mall. It certainly isn't at our own little piece of Mt Druitt/Emu Plains/Penrith/Campbelltown that is Warriewood Square either. Who are all these women with 4WD pram equivalents, in leggings, drinking Gloria Jeans lattes and obviously have a faith in the scrunchie worthy of the biggest, loudest and longest hand-waving praise-the-Lord song possible at Christian City Church (the Northern Beaches answer to Hillsong).
5. Do you know just how delicious it is to go to the movies in the middle of the day, on your own, with popcorn you don't have to share, seeing a movie you want to see with no interruptions?
6. The sheer pleasure of feeling tired so going to bed in.the.middle.of.the.day. is such a rare and special priviledge, I want it known just how much I appreciate the opportunity to do so - and how much I'm going to miss it in the few days/weeks before it is gone for ever once more.
7. It is quite remarkable the varied (and therefore better) diet your children get with you being at home, because dinner isn't simply a case of what can I cook in 10 minutes or less.
8. The time between hometime from school and bedtime is S.O. loooong.
Anyway, I had a clinic visit this afternoon. 42 cm from my pelvis to the top of my uterus peoples. Apparently there is still room in there as well. That was mildly horrifying, particularly when the midwife said, 'let's hope its not a 5kg horror').
The 'plan' is that if eating loads of chilli and Chef getting some lovin' doesn't work, then I'm back at clinic next Thursday (20 Oct), then Drs clinic the following Monday, then induced the Wednesday (26 Oct). But this time, just to mix it up, they'll break my waters and leave me alone for 3 hours or so to see if labuor will kick in on its own accord - otherwise its hello synto and lets see if we can break the 45minute labour record set by Felix... I can't believe, and yet I can, we're having these kind of discussions again. Come on uterus - work with me on this one!
To celebrate my home-ness
Oscar has wet the bed every.single.night.
Like I needed to really appreciate I can now do washing during the day.
Like I need to be pulling the mattress out from the bottom bunk AND remaking the bed every day.
Like I need to be woken each morning with the refrain "Mumma, we" - at 5.13.
Like all I can now smell is that faint whiff of urine... everywhere.
So come to think of it, maybe he's just bracing me for the next three years...
How to really really irritate me...
1. Tell me "we're getting in first" (even though I believe they said the following last Christmas) and that Christmas is at their place this year.
2. Get an email telling us we've all agreed (really, I don't remember any conversation, let alone a conversation on this) we're all doing Kris Kringle present giving this year (for adults) but instead of spending, say $100, on the person you get (which my recollections of conversations we had about it last Christmas) but $20-$30. Tell me, WHAT do you get of any calibre outside the range of bathroom products (that normally result in a rash of some nature) or the hideous Grey Flannel gift set (or female equivalent) for that kinda money. I had planned to give each family or individual a hamper of home-made products (ie that I had made) and someone please tell me they'd rather have a loofer and hideous bath gel over a Kim home-made hamper of mini-Christmas cake, shortbread, jam, onion marmalade, quince relish, or other such morsels? who? Who? WHO?
Oh - and say that we'll all buy presents for the kids because that's what Christmas is about (ah no - last time I looked it was actually about this guy called Jesus) - and then set the limit at $10, TEN dollars.
Here ends the lesson on how to look generous but be really REALLY cheap all at the same time.
3. Then, send an i.n.v.i.t.a.t.i.o.n. to Christmas Day - an invitation! As if its someone's (as in, not Jesus') birthday. WITH an attached sheet of the menu - already partially filled in with names of those you actually bothered to talk to about it - with space to put.your.name. next to something to bring. What I love is that the things that are left are either ludicrously expensive (seafood) or time consuming (Christmas Cake/pudding).
SO - I would like it known here and now - I will have a n.e.w.b.o.r.n. baby. We will have T.H.R.E.E. children. Chef works virtually e.v.e.r.y. single day from November to February, except Christmas Day. So if you want my bleeding netherbits, if you want my engorged breasts, if you want the lactating cow to be at your place on Christmas day with her family - this is NOT how you go about it.
1. This family AIN'T GOING ANYWHERE THIS CHRISTMAS (short of maybe going camping to avoid all the family crap I endure EVERY.SINGLE.YEAR. of the nature outlined above).
2. Any of our family and friends are more than welcome to call in at.any.time. throughout the day and will not be expected (or WORSE - ALLOCATED) to bring anything.
You will receive love, good cheer, a glass (or several) of some alcoholic celebratory beverage, and food that could be anything from seafood to a BBQ and salads to a traditional boiled Christmas pudding with Chef's remarkable brandy custard (this is the one thing I can not give up, even if it is 40 degrees in the shade and 99 per cent humidity... there must be Christmas pudding and custard).
3. IF you call in and we're not here, can I suggest you wander the 200 metres or so to the beach, where you will probably find us trying out new boogie boards and attempting to limit the amount of sand accidentally ingested by the baby.
Here endeth the lesson.
A short update as really any difference between 38 weeks and 39 weeks is just a sliding scale of crankiness and over-it-ness. Still, the incubus is definitely sitting lower, otherwise the burning like shooting pains coming from deep in my pelvis are a whole new excitement sensation never before experienced.
But more importantly - today was the first day of maternity leave. I spent the whole day having weird little panic attacks of "oo, I better get back" (as in, to work) and then little light moments of fancy realising "oo, no I don't!".
So, Sharon and I went to lunch at Chef's place, who made us THE best tasting plate this side of anywhere, then we went to Chef's boss' other business - Uovo - a groovy homewares store with awesome fabrics and other expensive 'stuff' I would love to fill my house with.
I tell you, I've only got 18 weeks of this and I am going to make the most of each and every day of it. Well, until the incubus is on the outside, I leak from every orifice, experience that exhaustion where sitting on the lounge, showered and dressed is a really great daily achievement.
Oh - in my attempts to treat dopey fish's swim bladder, I think I cooked it (you're meant to remove it from the tank and slowly warm the water its in to dislodge the air bubble inside it or clear the constipation that may be causing it. It seemed to be working, in that a very thin poo trail started to appear, so I added ONE teaspoon more of warm water and well, it went belly-up in more ways than one). Yup, 6 fish dead in a month. Bring it on incubus I say.
and for the finale
as part of my last-day-for-18-weeks I thought it'd be good to have a show, and not the kind with curtains, encores and showering of love and affection. (come on, I've been mulling this over for hours - how to elude to the mucus plug without actually using those words. Although it wasn't so much mucus - for once - but pink stain...I know, I shall move to obgynorama shortly)
I can't remember if I had a similar matinee with Felix - again just to torment me as he wouldn't budge until that needle was in my vein and the drugs were pumping.
But all day I had excellent braxton hicks and good period pains that peaked, ebbed, flowed and everything in between. Tonight they were getting quite impressive to the point I had to walk around and was more comfortable standing and rocking watching The Motorcycle Diaries than lying on the lounge. (Aside: Sweet mercy on my soul but Gael García Bernal does for duck lips what Kristin Scott Thomas and Penelope Cruz can only dream of achieving.) Chef was all "do I need to call in my reserves?" and "do we need to be leaving now?" - quite an achievement for a) my final day at work (talk about effective use and maximising return of maternity leave) and our e.i.g.h.t. year wedding anniversary (celebration: my saying "I don't care what we do but I need you to take charge as I'm getting hungrier and therefore crankier as each minute ticks by" - and Chef reaching for the takeaway menus and asking what kinda video I wanted to watch).
Anyway, then I had the overwhelming desire to sleep. So did so on the lounge and moved to bed at aroudn 10. I woke at 12 ish and here I sit.
No action, no activity, no progress.
Welcome to Kim's world of late pregnancy torment.
The Silent Scream
Right now, all over the world (well, the comparatively wealthy internet connected world anyway) blogging mothers of sensible natures are going: Only With A General Anaesthetic, Dude.
Well for this, of course:
Kelly Preston-Only-Famous-For-Marrying-John Travolta Urges Katie Holmes to Have Scientology Approved Silent Birth Even Though Her Own Attempt At It Failed MISERABLY
Okay, admittedly that's not quite the headline they used at MSNBC.
But they shoulda.
Now I had to think for a while as to whether I was qualified to comment on this one.
Baby Number One: the lady down the hall who was induced after me and gave birth before me? Major Screamer. Me? Major Tongue Biter, ending in emergency caesar.
Babies Number Two and Three: I had by then met the gynaecologist's wife who offered the sage advice, "At all costs, protect your fanny". So when my OB said, "Hmm, twins now and a previous caesar... well if you really want to try for a natural birth we could possibly..." I whipped out the trusty filofax and booked the elective c-section quick smart.
So what do I know about the screaming?
1. Screaming chick had her baby SOOO much faster than I had mine. Who knew?
2. There are only two ways to a quiet birth: epidural or general anaesthetic. And of these two ways only one will really work because the worst kept epidural secret is? They.Let.It.Wear.Off.Just.When.You.Really.Need.It.
3. It matters not a pinch of shite how much you scream during birth. NOTHING will stop you screaming for the 10 years beyond it.
PS - this one's for Kim. You still got a bellyful of arms and legs, sweetie?
It's not just 9 month pregnant women who get bladder problems...
Some of you are quite aware of my need for a point of focus to obsess over for anywhere from an hour to a lifetime (clothing peg colouration for example).
The latest has been the fishtank, which in a nesting frenzy I completely overhauled and as a result, killed the thee fish we'd owned for over 18 months.
The new haul seem pretty happy with their lot, the tank looks sensational, the water quality and temperature has stabilised blah blah blah.
Part of the new fish family is a black googly-eyed one. I know I know, it has a proper fish name but I'm sorry, it has googly eyes so that is its official scientific name in this house. I got it because apparently its good feng shui to ahve a black fish. And we all know Chef and my horrendous financial history is solely due to the position of our bed/mirrors/stairs where ever we've lived for the last 14 years (8 year wedding anniversary is tomorrow!). This feng shui stuff is really really real.
The woman in the pet shop told me they are pretty dopey fish - in fact, the most dopey you can get. Call me sick, but I thought it pretty cool - in a warped way admittedly - to have a dopey fish. I mean, their life is not that complex, so for a fish to be dopey is so beyond the 'let me pat the rabbit George, let me pat the rabbit' there was no choice but to buy it.
Well, my incredulity and laughing-at the dopey googly eyed black fish naturally segued to a 'what's wrong with my fish' search this morning on google (I can only imagine my industriousness in this regard when I actually do finish work tomorrow and can spend untold hours surfing the net for inane information on my latest psychosis).
Apparently, dopey has swim bladder. That's right. We've moved up the chain from fish diseases to fish disorders. Next we'll have a possessed fish that talks.
that there is cricket on the television...again.
Cake 'n stuff
The fourth generation boiled fruit cake recipe, pre icing...
Grandmama and her boys...
I am going to have to go back and delete all the nasty posts I've written about my mother and living with her, as my carcass gets huger by what feels like the minute and she just steps up to the plate and stands in on so many child-minding levels.
Today was a good day. Much spent on the back verandah in the sunshine reading papers, watching the washing dry (nothing beats a good drying day), a bit of baking, more cleaning, and generally just hanging around.
I look at that stunning picture of Bec and Prof offspring and all that comes to mind is shiny happy people. How joyous, content, comfortable do those kids look!
I was talking to a very dear friend yesterday (I'm Godmother to her daugher who turned 4 yesterday) and she asked how "I'd been" this pregnancy. We both knew what she was talking about as both of us had been on the post-natal depression journey and actually spent a lot of the trip together. My problem - apart from the realisation I could label some bouts as PND whereas the rest of the time its just crapola depression - is that the darkness still pervades nearly all my early memories of Felix. And I'm not talking months, its really well into the threes before I can remember anything without it being tinged with angst, anger, frustration, stress, anxiety, anger, bleakness, trappedness, and so on. The whole thing was just stressorama.
I've been 'good' this pregnancy, even moreso considering I only came off my latest round of happy pills by accident (ie, to lazy to get new script from GP so held out until shrink apt - then too lazy and no money to get script filled before thinking - I'm actually going OK - and then realising I was pregnant) in January.
And as d-day draws (hopefully) ever closer, I know in my heart and in my head that I am in a much better place than I was when Felix came into our world, and I know I am much more attune to the triggers that should ring alarm bells for me this time around, and I'm also in a much more stable (ie regular income) setting that hopefully the biggest trigger of all (money) is not such under such a twitchy finger. The other major component - our beautiful Ogga Boy - is also a lot older. I still grieve over his lot in life virtually every day (a friend of mine with a daughter who has William's Syndrome and works in the area of genetic counselling calls having a child with a genetic disorder/special needs 'living grief' and that is really the best summation of it all. You get on with life, you treat them how you would have if nothing had been wrong, you laugh, you live, you love, but there is always always always an undercurrent of emotion, of pain, of worry, of grief, about this child and what will become of them) but at 7.5 the path ahead does not seem so fogged in as it did at 2.
What Bec's post had reminded me to do is take pictures, lots of pictures. Because even on the worst of the worst days, there are smiles from these sproggets of ours that warm us to the core of our soul.
more blur but I couldn't resist these happy faces from the party today. L-R, the Evil Sparkle Twin, the Pea Princess and the Gorgeous Boy.
We're made to remember, we're made to forget.
Today I met the mother of boy and girl twins, who has an older daughter almost exactly as much older than her twins as the Pea Princess is older than ours. Her twins, however, were only five months old and oh boy did that bring back some bad memories.
The interesting thing was.
The memories were not as bad as I know the times really were... Good ol' Mother Nature doing her job, I guess.
So I thought I would post this up, as a blurry pic of my blurry memories, another of the Pea Princess' photographs of a photograph.
The original was taken on holiday in Pearl Beach when our babies were about the same age as the twins I held today. Of course, since mine were both 'normal' birthweight (about 7 pounds each PLUS two placentas, feel it ladies, feel it) - by the time they were a jolly five months of age they were double the size of these other twins at the same age.
They were pretty cute really, and we loved them then as we loved them now. Funny how that part stays sharp when all the ugly bits go blurry, ain't it?
A pic of a pic of a Pea Princess by a Pea Princess
Found these when I downloaded the latest pics from our nearly dead digital camera. The Pea Princess has been taking photos of photos. I think it has something, no?
. . .and the belly (39 weeks)
(Can you see those stretch marks - deep deep rivers of 'oh my God' that no amount of cocoa butter lotion could save.)
It dawned on me this morning...at 5.14
that yesterday's malaise, the one that made me cranky at the world while also so physically spent it was a challenge to brush my hair but not too tired to go through the boys wardrobe like a dose of salts and pack stuff away/rearrange for summer clothing and uniforms/create pile for St Vinnies or school clothing pools etc, was primarily due to living the last full week of work and that I was just exhausted.
Today, I feel like I've been supercharged. It's Mum's birthday so there was a sensational brekkie-in-bed creation of bacon and eggs - and let me just say, no-one does a sunny-side-up-fried-egg as well as I. I'm going to make our family's boiled fruit cake for her, a baked leg of lamb for dinner and lemon delicious for dessert. I haven't decided which one to post on our shameless-cross-promotion site yet - both the lemon delicious and fruit cake recipes have been in my family for four generations, so these are not things you give away lightly people.
I'm also going to make a batch of lemon biscuits - a tasty plain vanilla biscuit, topped with lemon icing - that the boys (and I) adore and that they love helping me with. These are biscuits that were one of the first things I learnt to cook (along with the fruit cake, lemon delicious and pavlova - are we seeing a pattern here?) and have such a special place in my heart. You know, one of those foods that on the first bite trigger memories of staying at my nan's, cooking as a child standing on a chair in the kitchen, making them all by myself for the first time and all that kind of stuff.
Man, I've just reread this - bundles of energy, cooking, childhood memories - I am so pregnant.
Bec - I never got into the Buff, but have so many friends that did I am moderately intrigued. The question then arises, did you stay up at 10.30pm on Wednesday to watch Joss Whedon's new series Firefly (that got dumped, so he thumbed his nose at them and turned it into the movie Serenity - which is awesome. I don't know who this Nathan Fillion is who plays the lead, but he is a babe).
Y'gotta love the Buff.
Despite being on a very tight budget in an attempt to pay our new kitchen instal-ments without extending the mortgage (feel free to mock our touching optimism), the Prof recently brought home the second series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on dvd.
I don't intend to write too much about this because when it comes to lovin' the Buff you're either in or you're out and ever since that sad sad day the Slayer rode the last bus out of the smoking crater that was Sunnydale, I have no desire to convince anyone else of her endearing merits.
The Buff, she is no more, but her re-runs live forever.
The point (and there is one) is that just as Kim soaks up the joy tht is America's newest supertroll, I steep like a Twinings teabag in the blissful escapism that is Buffy.
I am steeping now, as I type, and Buffy's south american exchange student just had the life-force sucked out of him by a 500 year old Inca mummy.
Seriously, with the kids all asleep, a bellyfull of salmon in cumin with tossed warm salad of asparagus and tomato, a really delicious and ridiculously cheap bottle of reisling, and now the Buff - Saturday nights just don't get much better than this.
It is 1.38am here. I went to bed at 7pm last night. It failed. Firstly, because the boys were so tired as well I just lay in bed listening to them whinge, cry, be angry with Chef. Finally, they went to bed - crying a cacophany because "Mummy, she puts us to bed", "I waaaaaant Mummeeeeee", "Mumma not dadda" etc etc etc.
After getting up and giving them the "this family is a team" pep talk, telling them I was disappointed in their behaviour and that, just as mummy did, if you know you are that tired that the only response to the world you're going to have is a cranky one, then take yourself off to bed and save the world from having to experience it, blah blah blah I went back to bed. I think I finally went to sleep around 8.30.
So now, its 1.42 and I'm awake. This is so normal now - as in, there are so many consecutive nights that I am basically awake for any stretch of time between 1am and oh, say 4am, that I went, hey, I'll tell the Net about it because well, I've got to whinge somewhere and Chef's snoring and drooling is indicating he ain't hearing me.
Now, and just because it is 1.44am, and I'm feeling quite overly "this kid is never coming out", and Bec's schizo entry hasn't done it, here is a tip for some of our delightful readers... at the end of each entry, it says who has entered it - so no need to get confused as to who has written the entry any more. Come on peoples. Work with me on this one. No one, and i mean n.o.o.n.e. is going to get any misguided glory when it comes to the birthing story of this kid, OK. so lets work it out now...
There was an old woman who lived in shoe...
and had so many children her uterus fell out.
That's my current state of mind.
When the boys were younger, in that hell that is two children aged 0 and 2, 1 and 3, 2 and 4 (this was the worst - and in fact instigated a period of about 6 months of self-inflicted exhile from anywhere public with both children at the same time except for the very occasional trip to a g.a.t.e.d. park), I had a saying that I started each and every day as Mary Poppins and ended it as Cruella deVille.
Delusional Schizophrenia, Or, How to tell us apart.
The nature of our joint blog is that sometimes friendly visitors drop in and think Bec is Kim and Kim is Bec or perhaps that Bec and Kim are just the voices in the head of a single unknown blogger who has forgotten to take their medication.
It's quite simple really.
Kim is the one who is about to drop baby number three, and Bec is the one who used to laugh at people with three children until she accidentally popped out babies number two and three together. I've been paying for that bit of carelessness ever since.
So, the delusional schizophrenia is not related to distinguishing between the Bec voice (Kill, Kill, Kill) and the Kim voice (Eat the flesh, Eat the flesh) in the unknown blogger's head. But I'm sure Kim (who is not yet in labour, by the way) would agree we each have our own special Sybil moments.
As a Mother Of Many, or so it feels, living in a tiny wee inner city terrace house, I like to think of the myself as the Old Woman who Lives in a Shoebox. But which one am I?
Am I this one: rather jolly and colourful, albeit weary to the emaciated bone - with happy children amusing themselves merrily in all sorts of healthy pursuits and sporting many bizarre vertical hairdos...
Or, perhaps this one:
Please note the large stick in her right hand. This chick really knows her nursery rhymes. None of this politically correct 'kissed them all soundly' bullshit you get in soppy nursery books today. 'Whipped' it is written and whipped they shall be, right after their broth without any bread.
It seems to me there's a split here that most of us can identify with: in terms of multiple personalities, we've all got a bit of Mother Goose and a bit of Brothers Grimm.
Which picture is you right now?
the bag. it is packed.
Last night as I lay on the lounge in that divine peace that is America's Next Supertroll and nacho cheese doritos, I realised there was this annoying period-like pain down low that maybe I should be monitoring.
So, using the display on the TV (who wears a watch these days?) I discovered this irritating pangs were coming and going oh, every 4 minutes. I was actually quite chuffed that my body was in sync with itself and had remembered it was incubating, despite my best efforts to trick it into thinking otherwise.
Now I learnt the long hard six week way with Felix that these pains count for shit. My body would taunt me with similar pangs almost each and every day and then amount to diddlysquat.
Anyway, after about an hour and a half I figured perhaps I should at least pay them their dues and pack a bag. So now, the bag, its packed. I even remembered stuff for the baby.