And before they get up, I'll be gone...

I went to aqua aerobics again on Tuesday, and as I was walking towards the pool, I noticed another giant belly hovering about and became irrationaly excited about bonding with a stranger over our shared 'condition'. I walked up to her, beaming, and said, 'Hey, snap!', pointing at our bellies, and she did not want a bar of it. A little half smile and she walked away to sort out her bathing cap. Well! Up yours, pregnant lady. I'm going to kick your arse at water aerobics. And I did. Apparently I am a competitive bitch when snubbed.


Little O tested out our stormtrooper high chair last night. That thing is hideous. I'm trying to palm it off to D & S, partly because they're going to need it way before us, but also, christ it's ugly. Seemed to do the trick, though. Not that he spent all that much time sitting in it. He's got a few words now, which is mind-blowing, but he's still not really walking. Not sure whether it's the return of the uncanny calm, or just because the guests last night were The Boy's rather than mine, but wow, easy. I don't feel like having people for dinner is actually much trouble, and I do enjoy doing it, but it was so much better last night when he knew what was happening with the food and what needed to be done when. I had no idea I was even feeling pressure on previous occasions, but I felt none at all yesterday. And hopefully, by the time I get home tomorrow, I will have missed the worst of the dishes too. Heh.

Off to Sydney again this afternoon, for another book launch. This time for a book that doesn't make me cringe at all, by an author who was an absolute dream to work with. It's all about babies, from conception to sleep troubles, and when I started working on it, I didn't know the bean was busily multiplying its little cells in there... I found myself sitting at my desk with tears running down my cheeks while I read these birth stories, and thinking, 'Good lord, woman, pull yourself together.' The next week when those two little pink stripes appeared, the ridiculously emotional response began to make some sense! But I spent pretty much the first trimester reading about birth and babies, and checking birth-related websites that were in the references, without telling a soul at work how incredibly interested I was in it all... The author nearly jumped out of my screen with enthusiasm when I finally told her the news. She's all about meeting the bump! I'm not making the trip alone this time... it's a three-way hotel room! As-yet-unexplored avenues of collegial weirdness will be revealed! Oh, the intrigue. I almost turned up this morning with just a pair of knickers in my shoulder bag to see if I could freak out the hyper-organised...

In the meantime (thank you, Cup Day?), I have little jockeys on the brain.

23 skidoo...

Oh lordy, we're powering on here. The Week of Uncanny Calm (as diagnosed by The Boy reading Up the Duff while I lazed in bed being not at all fussed by the enormous amounts of work I should have been doing) has passed. Or at least gone on a temporary hiatus. On Sunday, I attempted to give this kid more than a square metre to call its own, and braved the black hole that is the spare room. It's worse now. Much worse. The haphazard bin system in our block of flats has meant that the fortnightly recycling (really? in this day and age? fortnightly recycling?) hasn't gone out in quite some time, and all four mega-bins are overflowing. Which means our kitchen recycling pile is migrating along the corridor to the hall, and joining with the MOUNTAINS of crap I have finally chucked out of the chest of drawers I've had since I was 12.

I think since I acquired the desk that the drawers are housed in, I have lived in 7 different places, and the desk has come to 6 of them. Every time I move, I open the drawers intending to clean them out, toss out a couple of old biros, then lose interest (or my nerve) and dump the rest in a box ready to be dumped straight back into the drawers in the new place. The shit that they have collected over the years has to be seen to be believed. Postcards from my nana from the Cotswolds in 1995, stamped but not written on. (Why, crazy lady? And why have I kept it?) Letters from penpals I don't even remember. One of them sent me his junior high school ID card, accompanying a scrawled, single-page letter explaining the complex machinations of trying to hook up with the girls he likes. 'Melissa is a hottie, but she just broke up with Steve, and even though I want to make a move, I don't want to ruin our really good friendship. But I think I will make a move. That's if nothing happens with Tina. She's a hottie.' And so on. It's not all socio-cultural gold. Unless broken Kinder Surprise toys, empty little velvet jewelery boxes and a complete set of dried up textas count as gold. Too bad. They're in the bin now.

The bump grows ever outwards, and pummels my insides every waking hour, and many allegedly sleeping ones too. Bless its cotton socks, I do love to know its there. And when it didn't do its customary somersaults as I went to bed the other night, I made The Boy get out the stethoscope and listen to my insides to make sure the bean was ok. Veeeery difficult. I'm barely alive, according to that thing. No hope of hearing what's going on in womb-land, let alone distinguishing the difference between cord pulse and baby pulse. Never mind. Little tacker kicked him in the head soon afterwards, so all is well.

Oh goats. You are so cute. The Boy went up and checked on them this morning, and everyone's happy. They're bigger already, apparently! Those photos make them look larger than they actually are - which was about small cat sized. Oh squish, I love them.

Shilo posted this, which restores my faith in humanity no end. Not that it needed all that much restoration these days. The sun is out, the days are long, I no longer fit into my jeans (dammit! Nearly made it to 6 months! Can I deal with the horror of jeans shopping with the added stress of bump? Is it summer enough not to bother?), but really. Life is good.

Double the cute!

Oh my goodness, there is nothing cuter in the whole world than a baby goat. Except maybe two baby goats. Mama goat has had TWINS! Squee!

I touched her belly when we were there on Sunday, and said, 'Ooh, lady, you're tight as a drum!' She had Esteban at about this time of year, so we didn't think a tiny goat could be far off, but we did not know there were two in there! When Joy went up to feed them on Wednesday, she rang to say they'd arrived!

We're heading up tonight (after my play date/reality check with S and baby D), and I think I might be more excited about the goat babies than the human babies! Weeee!

Pics to come...
----------------------
Pics came!

Must... spleep...

Dear tiny bean,

Any time you want to chillax for more than 10 minutes at a stretch is a-ok with me. Don't get me wrong, it's lovely to know you're in there, chowing down on amniotic fluid and all, but I'm not sure I really need to have tumble-turn updates 24/7. Yo mamma needs her beauty sleep, unnerstan? Don't make me come down there with the Ritalin.

Smoochies!

22.

Up yours, Mother Nature! Today I have sweated and shivered, been rained on and I think perhaps gained some freckles. Jeez. Make up your mind, already. It's not all bad, though, I guess. The sky has been rather picturesque.

T drove us down to G-town for D's baby shower this afternoon. She's the first pregnant woman I've really hugged! Fun to have our bumps meet each other. I had thought things had kind of plateaued in the bump department, but there was a pretty universal 'Holy crap! Look how PREGNANT you are!' when we arrived.  The boys took hipstamatic pics on their iPhones and oooh jeez, I want one. Here's me. Looking not at all pregnant. But rather 70s.

My god, we laughed a lot. It was dry knickers all round, but Rosie's post made me want to do pelvic floor exercises all the way home, just in case! I'm terrible at remembering them. I keep trying to associate them with something I do every day so that I don't forget, but it just doesn't work. You're supposed to do sets of 10, and even when I do remember to give them a go, I realise an hour later than I only made it to 4 before I lost got distracted by a cupcake or something.

I had intended to bake cupcakes to take with us today, which were then revised down to chocolate meringues, which then became scones bought from the bakery 20 minutes before we had to leave. Blame it on the uncanny sense of calm that has taken over my being. 'She'll be right' has long been my motto, but it's really taken hold these days. At least I managed to fish out a jar of blackberry jam leftover from this year's bumper crop. The last of the lot, if you don't count the tub of berries still hiding in the freezer. Should make a crumble with them before the weather decides to roll on over into summer.

I went to aqua aerobics for the first time on Tuesday. It was awesome fun! I'm a total convert. Me and the middle-aged women and our foam dumbbells. And the red polka-dot bikini. I'll definitely be back.

Nellie came over on Thursday with her uni mentor to sign me up as one of her follow-through women. They both heartily approve of the birthing classes we've enrolled in, and the boys' night that the boy is going to do. It's strange and kind of cool that we've known each other almost since we were born, and now she's going to be a part of me having a baby.

There was a power failure in Camberwell yesterday so everyone went home early. A lovely way to end the week, especially as I'd just finished doing the one crucial computer-reliant thing I had to accomplish. I was home in my PJs on the couch way before 5pm. And then we ordered ridiculous schnitzels from this takeaway joint around the corner, each one of which was bigger than both of our heads put together. They came with lots of cold chips and tangy, cabbagy salads, and we wolfed them down while watching Breaking Bad. All good until we got to Geelong this afternoon and both of us had the squirts in D's parents' house. The Boy confided in me as I was putting jam and cream on the scones, and said that the wafty hippy 'Answers' book they had for toilet reading told him he should 'give and give until he could give no more'. Seemed perfectly appropriate advice. I certainly gave all my bowels had to give. Doesn't seem to have affected the bean one bit. Still booting me in the bladder every 10 minutes.

The boys have invited us over to watch 80s movies tonight, but The Boy is napping and the kitten is snuggling on my lap, and I'm not sure I have a cross-town journey in me. It's the way back that's the kicker, when The Boy's liquored up and I have to drive. I hate having to drive! The car is my sleepy place!

22 weeks has seen my belly button become a shallow shadow of its former cavernous self. The march of the bosom continues ever outwards... I've started not being able to bear being without a bra, cos they sit on the top of my belly and it's just too much skin contact. Gold help me when it's 35 degrees.

And just one last thing, because I can't help think of dear Manuel whenever I hear '22' (stick it out to a bit after 12 minutes...).

This is what my boobs look like.

See that shine on the petal there? That's it. The same soft, stretched glow that my bosom exudes when I get undressed at night. Hold tight, girls!

10km at 21 weeks. A walk in the park!

Made it! And in much better shape than the last big run. I'm far from comatose, although I still took the day off. (Because I have 75 sick days racked up - a completely ridiculous situation, which can only be rectified with either cancer or gratuitous post-run recovery days.)


I ran with J and her stress fracture. She was aiming for an hour and a half, and I think we came in at 1.27 or so. Really, a walk in the park. I was pretty knackered last night, but that was more from standing around at the recovery tent for four hours afterwards, then walking all afternoon as The Boy bought lunch and sake and shoes, and then standing around at drinks in the evening. My legs were killing me when we finally went to bed, but I slept like the dead and feel miraculously alive and awake now.


The bean got a medal of his/her own, which I somehow managed to fit around my waist. V. cute. Didn't see one one other pregnant woman on the course. Slackers. I think the running puts the baby to sleep. It kicks and pokes all morning before and afterwards, but I don't feel a thing while I'm actually running. We're going to have to get a fitball or something so we can bounce up and down to settle this kid without actually having to run or use our own steam.

It was The Boy's birthday on Saturday. I bought him a metal detector (which detects neither tent pegs nor wire and will therefore be useful at the farm only for the discovery of TREASURE) and one of these things. It's horrible. But he loves it. We are in for a digitally noisy summer. (He also bought himself the garageband world music instruments thingo. The Christmas album is back.) We spent the day chopping wood (him) and slashing bracken (me), before realising that the farm clocks haven't been changed for daylight savings and having a later-than-planned dinner with his mum. A very quiet and grown-up birthday. (We did also go out for dinner on Friday night with the boys and Z & V, etc. and joined D at his birthday drinks afterwards. A BIG night ensued. Much more like the birthdays of old.)


Today I'm going to snooze and shower and laze in the sun, and perhaps buy some bathers that will hold my enormous knockers in, and definitely have a massage. And not spend all day looking at a computer screen. So long, suckers!

Kittens and cats and a bit of a running group love-in.

Yeah, so, turns out kitten didn't eat those blow flies. She left them on the rug under the coffee table for me to find when I chased her there this morning. Ew. I am not squeamish. I can pick up frogs and lizards and rescue hunstmans and worm goats with the best of them. But half-chewed enormous blow flies with their hideous fat black bodies full of maggots. Ugh! My face is screwed up in repulsion just thinking about them. (Are they full of maggots? I don't even know.) Ugh. You'll be pleased to know I did nothing at all about the situation. I'm hoping next time I look under there, they'll be gone. Domestic housework goddess, I am not.


Also, new cutest thing in the world: the kitten lying on my lap in a purry stupor, paws out in front of her resting on my belly, poking the bean back when it pokes her. She KNOWS, I tells you.

In news that has nothing to do with ridiculous kitty infatuations, it was the last night of running yesterday. The rain that soaked us under the eggplant-and-concrete coloured sky was wonderfully tropical and refreshing, until it became cold and torrential and horizontal. But by then we were almost done, and we raced back upstairs to a room full of warmth and sweat and orange singlets. People were thanked, gifts were given and everyone left feeling ready to run on Sunday and bursting with do-gooder camaraderie. We gave D a wind-up tin robot (orange, of course) with balance as crap as his and a box of tacos (cos running is like a box of tacos, y'all). The girls gave me a teeny little baby-sized orange singlet (gush!) and a little tiger full of things to chew on and pull and play with. Here she is, in fact.

Pull her tail and she purrs. Heh. They're lovely.

There's a bunch of orange tulips on our table from Nic and Annie and, not that I'm surprised, but I'm reminded again of how fantastic the organisation is, and how wonderful it is to be involved. They were banging on about how much work we put in as volunteers, but really, I don't ever feel like it's something I wouldn't want to do. I love it. I love running. I love the zone. I love holding the door open for other people to get there. It's not a burden, or a hardship. It's a freakin' privilege. I'm so proud of all those girls. I'm going to be ole preggo up the back on Sunday, I think, but that's ok. There's always someone who's having a shit time of it and needs a little help towards the end. I'll miss it when it's over, but I do think I'm beginning to hit the 'running with sixteen bags of oranges strapped to my front' stage. Switching to swimming and weightlessness and water seems mighty appealing, especially as the weather gets warmer... it ain't running, though.

Halfway yesterday.

The kitten is clattering around the living room, falling off furniture in a bid to catch blow flies. There are two of them buzzing about and she is mad with the hunting instinct. I did worry the first time she caught one and ATE it, but it didn't seem to do her any harm, and it least it means we don't have to deal with them...


The sun, the glorious sun has graced us with its presence two days in a row and I am beside myself with springtime goodwill. I'm sitting in my knickers with the laptop on my knees, the front door open to the warm breeze and an empty bowl of chocolate tofu ice cream on the bench next to me. A walk down Chaps this afternoon was seriously slow - a taste of things to come once the heat sets in, I'm sure - but I was happy to stroll and take my daylight-savings time. The end of football season meant the smell of warm blossom on the air was periodically overwhelmed by the stale reek of beer wafting up from the concrete, but even that has its September in Melbourne charms.


A baby shower yesterday; a plate of last-minute chocolate chip ginger nuts and the quickest drive across town I'm ever likely to experience. Not a soul was on the road as the first quarter of GF Take II got underway. Haven't spoken to D yet, but I'm sure he's devastated. Such is the life of the St Kilda fan, little bro. He should know that by now. I didn't watch a minute of it this time around, and seem to have tucked the rabid screaming teenager-with-a-scarf back down to wherever it is she's been hiding all these years.

My jeans still fit, but only just, and not at all really when I'm driving. (At least, the bean lets me know that they're cramping its style.) Running is getting tough, but I think that's mostly the heat. This 10km next week is going to be the last one, I think. Back to casual 5km jogs around the lake. Otherwise, all is well in the land of the growing belly. It's halfway, and I have never felt so content. It doesn't make for very interesting blogging, but jeez it's a nice way to live.

In a couple of hours, I'll make some dinner, then set off down the freeway to collect my love from the refugee camp that is the Tiger arrivals 'lounge'. Then probably to bed before another week begins. And in the meantime, a nap...

Life and luck and happiness, I have. Good lordy god almighty, things are great.

Ten little toes.

I drove The Boy to the airport this morning in the gleaming light of the first truly sunny day in months. He's off to Sydney for an aikido gashku, and may or may not come home with a black belt. But he said to me in the car (as he held a profile snapshot from our 20-week ultrasound!) that actually, he's not that fussed about whether he makes the grading or not. Because the bean is in perfect health, with all its little bits, and that's pretty much the best thing in the whole world. That's my boy.

And yes, the bean is in perfect health. Poking me all day long, extremely perceptible to the external observer. The ultrasound technician commented on how active it was. God help me, I don't think this kid is going to do much sleeping when it gets out.

Anyway. Here's pretty much the cutest thing I've ever seen.

Chubby little baby legs with 3cm feet.

I was going to tell stories about the farm and rabbits and dinner with friends, but I think I've hit the wall. Gots to get up at stupid o'clock tomorrow for the penultimate long run, and I'm going to need more sleep behind me than the paltry few hours I had for the last 9km.

Night night, little bean. Don't be poking yo mamma now. (There it goes. Right on cue.)