Baby Whisperer
1 December 2005, 06:35
When MiniMc started kicking, at about the 22 week mark, I would get McG to put his hand on my tummy so he could feel it. But the little bugger would not kick for Husband… “oh no papa, I’m good MiniMc, I sleep when papa tells me to sleep. zzzzzzzz”
At the time it wasn’t so bad as the kicks were only sporadic, but lately, mother-of-god, MiniMc has been kicking up a veritable tornado. A little mini-rave. Now it’s running out of room MiniMc’s getting even more insistent on boxing my kidneys and bladder and stomach. “oh, let’s do a little tap-dance on mama’s spleen. weeeeeeeeeeee!”
I thought there might have been something wrong with MiniMc yesterday, as it was wriggling around about half the day, no exaggeration. It was driving me nuts, ‘specially because I’m actually expected to be productive at work and it’s the most distracting thing imaginable. They reckon around this mark (32 weeks and a bit) you should feel “10 kicks in a 12 hour period”. I probably get an average of 10 kicks/undulations/jujitsu moves an hour.
...and yet, whenever I put McG’s hand on my belly, when MiniMc is being most active, it would always go into foxing mode and lie perfectly still. McG’s only felt MiniMc move a handful of times. It was getting ridiculous. The Mc was making a liar out of its mama.
This morning though, when I woke up and surprise, surprise, MiniMc woke up too, with a decent left hook to my uterus followed by a series of dodge moves, I put McG’s hand on my skin and…. bliss….. no movement (until of course, he took his hand away and it started back up again).
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful MiniMc is moving around (ahem, hopefully not because of sugar rush brought on by too much (non-alcoholic) trifle), but some days I wish I could take resident Baby Whisperer to work with me so he can placate this feisty little baby bugger-of-mine…
Permanent Link | CommentsThe first time I've agreed with little Johnny Howard
29 November 2005, 19:03
No Silence for Nguyen Hanging…
Photo Friday "Yellow"
26 November 2005, 07:45
Kiiroi takushii… Click to enlarge in Gallery
The Story behind Kiiroi takushii
This photo was taken in Ginza, Tokyo. Taxis in Japan are strange beasts – hideously expensive, with taxi drivers from the Michael Jackson school of white glovery. Every taxi is meticulous, with unspoilt white doilies lining the seats and automatic doors which pop open as you approach the taxi and pop open when you are about to alight. No need to spoil the handle with grubby human hands.
The taxi experience is quite unlike any you get in Australia, with big Greek chain-wearing characters booming their opinions at you with rapid fire and a jocular laugh. No. The Japanese taxi experience is a sanitary one.
But at least there is little risk of finding a used condom jammed in the handle (has happened to moi in Melbourne)...
Permanent Link | Photo Feedback [1]Testing, testing
22 November 2005, 06:56
Now I’m in the penultimate stages of the pregnancy, the frequency of midwife visits and tests is starting to escalate.
Last Thursday, I had a “GCT” test (for gestational diabetes (shudder)). One has to drink a 350ml bottle of lime-flavoured liquid, wait an hour, then they take your blood and test your body’s reaction to it. Imagine downing, in record time, a massive glass of artifical green Cottees lime cordial (straight) with a few bubbles thrown in. Thoroughly gross. I was in serious jeopardy of vomiting the whole lot back up within 10 minutes or so, never mind waiting a full 60 minutes.
They haven’t called me with any bad news, though, so am assuming I’m in the clear.
They also take your blood pressure at every visit. I reckon I’ve been 120/70 since the day I took my first breath and it hasn’t changed at all. In fact, with a couple of slight tremors, everything has been disgustingly normal since day one (touch wood). I’m not a big advocate of “normal”, but let me tell you, when you’re pregnant and worrying about your unborn progeny, it’s all you want to hear.
Back has been aching like buggery (oh, I’m sorry, you did want to hear about all my physical symptoms didn’t you?) so got meself a “Stork S’port” chasti…. erm, pregnany belt from la physio, that you wrap around your waist/lower back. It’s meant to support all those loose ligaments jiggling around, that MiniMc insists on dancing on. Am skeptical that the thing actually works, but will give it shot.
Now the Mini is running out of space, there have been occasions where s/he has stuck a little foot (or elbow, have no idea) out my front portion, and it stays there, poking out of my skin. Truly Ripley-esque. Apparently from now, the little (ahem, big) twists and tumbles will pare off as it heads south for the exit and assumes the position.
Not long now…
Permanent Link | Comments [2]Shake the Disease
18 November 2005, 08:43
I have a Disease. Nothing of the venereal or fatal kind you understand, no, I have Hoardarosis, the silent affliction of keeping everything one has ever owned or written or collected in a series of unmarked boxes.
Up until two months ago, these boxes were safely stored at my folks place in QLD, but they unloaded them all onto me and only yesterday I had the onerous task of going through it all and chucking most of it.
It hurt. I was a voracious poetry writer in my teens (most of it from the “yearning for the Yorkshire moors” school of snores) and I had about 10 penpals from various countries (through the Kate Bush Club but we don’t talk about that) who sent me massive epistles every week. I kept them all.
Through these letters, I re-discovered an errant (and best left forgotten) nickname I used to have when I was in my teens – Krumbles and variations thereof – Krumbly, Krumbleton, Krumblestilsken (O.K I made that last one up)... there was no escape.
Some of the nerdier crap I chucked:
- notes that were passed b/w me & my various besties/love interests in 8th grade with such literary gems as…
[My bestie, Nicole was of course, going to marry Simon LeBon, hence the name and apparently moi, alias “Casey” (don’t remember how I got the nick) was so going to marry Scott Carne (honestly, don’t ask). Frankly, I ended up doing a hell of a lot better…]
- A fridge magnet of my ex-boyfriend and I
- School reports from back in ‘nam
- Street maps from every town I so much as sniffed when I travelled through Canada
- Postcards from childhood family trips (not written on, I just used to collect them (#$%^&???)).
- When I was a teen, I did a “Top 20 songs” religiously, every week (obsessive compulsive, anybody?) and I found virtual tomes of these Top 20s. They all got chucked.
I wish my folks had just heaved the lot and not told me. I wouldn’t have been any the wiser. As it was, I had to go through the pain and boredom of throwing out all these memories. O.K, maybe not all. I simply couldn’t bear to let go of the letter from Claude Carranza (from Kids in the Kitchen, now defunct Aussie band from the 80’s) thanking me for a birthday card one year. I was all of 13 and I’ve had that letter for over 20 years.
Once an addict, always an addict.
Permanent Link | Comments [6]Chucking a Demi
14 November 2005, 07:20
For those of you who have been dying to see a pic of the bump (all 0 of you) here it is, one premium side cut of preggo bellah. At 30 weeks (well, 30w tomorrow but who the hell’s counting?)
29w 5d
...but for those of you shrieking “put your bellah in, woman, for the love of GOD…”
...something a little more decent
Permanent Link | Comments [6]Looking down the barrel of the thingo. You know what I mean.
11 November 2005, 18:17
Whenever I see a heavily preggo woman, I think “Oh my god, what would I do if I ever got that big?” Well, patrons, I espied myself in a shop-front window today and realised. I am that big. I’m a big preggo lady who other women probably look at and think “Omigod I hope I don’t get that big…”
O.K I’m exaggerating. I haven’t toppled forward yet or gone arse over tit down a flight of stairs (outstanding, considering my track record for doing just that), but I’m at the stage now where I have to think about how I’m gonna get of the couch in case I pull a muscle somewhere.
My vocabulary has gone up shit creek without a paddle. Everything these days is the thingamiwhatsit or the dooverlacky thingo. My thingamiwhatsit has become an “overcoat”, even though husband tells me it’s a “dressing gown”. It’s all very confusing, this words thing. Please make it stop.
Permanent Link | Comments [1]Guardian (Hells) Angels
6 November 2005, 07:46
In the past couple of weeks I’ve had an odd type of guardian angel – the middle-aged singlet-and-thong-wearing tattooed-hells-angels bikie-dude.
First, there was the serious bikie guy on the tram who made people get out of the way as I was getting off.
Then yesterday at Safeway, I was unloading my groceries onto the conveyor belt (is that what it’s called?) at the checkout and the dude in front of me offered to help me with them. I politely declined saying thank you that is very kind but I’m not quite on the scrapheap yet. He gruffly went on to rue that nobody got up for pregnant women and old ladies on the tram anymore and what was the world coming to? He then thoughtfully offered to exchange my newborn for his 17 year old daughter. Again. I declined.
Now I’m not the type to judge people on how they look, but if I’d have met this guy in a dark alley I would have left skiddies running the other way. It was such a strange odd moment.
Being a stubborn, self-sufficient wench, I don’t know how I will fare when it comes to actually needing (heaven forbid, asking for) people’s help. I’m getting to the stage now where my back and pelvic joints ache constantly and my tummy is growing exponentially. Very soon I’ll be able to rest me cuppa on it.
Chances are that offers of assistance will come from the most unlikely of places…
Permanent Link | Comments [2]Write-off
2 November 2005, 18:38
Warning: superstar bitch whinge to follow…
Have decided to write off today as Capital Fucked Day.
It all started yesterday when I went to the Ear and Eye Hospital. The Opthamologist dude was the biggest condescending prick, contradicting my “I have a cold sore in my eye” with “It’s probably not a cold sore” (in that tone) only because he apparently couldn’t see the lesions and treated me like I was a complete idiot. Hello! That’s the point, Mr. I Know Everything – there are no lesions yet, that’s the best (nay, only) time to hit it up with your antivirals.
Alas, he wouldn’t give me anything for my phantom lesions, so lo and behold I wake up this morning with the most gruesome pustules you’ve ever seen lining my eyelid. Thankfully they haven’t gone onto my eye yet, but they really are gross and itch painfully everytime I blink.
Thus spending all day in front of computer screen was not going to be good, but I had a zillion things to do. Of course, my laptop’s c:drive decided that today would be a lovely day to to die in the arse and I had to wait for 3 hours for the dude to come fix it. I didn’t have any breaks through the day, and got the go ahead from the Boss to leave at 4pm cos my eye was hurting like a muthafucker.
I had an important project that needed to be done by C.O.B. that I thought I’d be able to polish off by 4, but had to wait to get in some work from someone else, so at 5.30 I was still plugging away at the niggling & endless minutiae. At 5.30, I lost Plot and started sniffling (cough, crying) with frustration & tiredness. [disclaimer: It’s a sad truth that when you’re pregnant, you don’t have the same control over your emotions as before, when you were a “normal” person]. Boss then told me to go home as she didn’t want me being a Martyr (ouch!), but I insisted on seeing the bloody thing to the end, tears or no tears.
The only bright light was a nice person on the tram who offered me her seat. Once I was two stops away from home. Ah well, is thought that counts.
Permanent Link | Comments [5]
