I used to have all these naive ideas that when a baby was born, Mum and Dad sat back, basking in blissful happiness, sipping tea while friends and family dropped by bearing gifts and congratulations.  I was half right.  We did have lots of lovely friends and family visit.  Lincoln was showered with gifts.  But blissfully happy?  Relaxed?  Not likely.  After giving birth, and being sewn back together, “Better than before!” as my obstetrician cheerfully announced, I spent the next two days shuffling painfully about in adult diapers while nurses, doctors, paediatricians, cleaners, and catering staff flew in and out of the doors all day and night.    At least once a day someone would ask to peer at areas I’d never put on public display before, and I was regularly asked if I was experiencing much pain from the stitches.  Stitches?  Are there stitches?  It’s the hemorrhoids that were killing me! Irritatingly I only discovered the “Do Not Disturb” sign the day I left.

The other naive idea I had was that breastfeeding was natural, easy, and most of all – painless.  I don’t care who tries to tell me it doesn’t hurt so long as the baby is attached properly, it hurts!  In fact, I’ve come up with a few suggestions for other mums-to-be on preparing their unsuspecting nipples from the onslaught of soon to arrive piranha.  My first suggestion is to scrub your nipples vigorously with steel wool  until bleeding.  Secondly, you could try poking them repeatedly with a sewing needle.  And just to get them really primed, pop the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner over them and turn it on for 20 minutes.  Once you can handle this without screaming in pain,  you’re ready!  But I’m beginning to wonder if I just have really sensitive nipples.  Of every nurse, midwife and breastfeeding consultant who checked on me, not one could find a problem with how Lincoln was feeding, and I had no signs of injury to myself.  In the end, I expressed and bottle fed Lincoln while my poor, abused mammeries recovered.  And another thing – no matter how much your breasts have been handled prior to giving birth, I don’t think anything can prepare you for a cranky infant, arms and fists flailing with one bruised and rapidly purpling nipple grasped tightly in his grip!  Every different midwife gave different advice, and being told “No, you’re not holding him right!” after being told “You’re a natural” by someone else seriously begins to erode any shred of self confidence you may harbour.

My other naive error?  I’d hoped for a little rest while I was in hospital so I had some energy reserved for home time.  Wrong again.  Aside from the aforementioned constant visiting of staff, there was just the sheer bewilderment of having a whole new life to take care of.  For starters, I really didn’t know what to do.  How do I know he’s hungry?  What if just as I go to sleep, he wakes up?  I had hoped that having Dave stay with us would afford me a bit of time to rest, but Dave slept for one third of the time, complained about being tired for one third of the time, and was out running errands for the rest of the time.  If he’d complained about how tired he was one more time I think he would have copped a dirty nappy in his face!  Dads, when you’re wife’s been up all night in labour, and unable to sleep for more than 10 minutes in the three days following, whatever you do, don’t complain about how tired you are.  On my last night in hospital, Dave stayed home and Lincoln went to the nursery so I could get just one precious night’s sleep.  At 7pm a new mum and baby were admitted next door, the latter of which cried all night. Actually, if she’s anything like me, the former probably cried all night too, but no-one could hear her over the baby. By the next morning, I’d had enough.  And then my milk came in.  Ever seen those novelty aprons with the enormous pair of plastic breasts?  That’s how I looked, only any ounce of amusement was lost in the painful throbbing it induced.  My chest had sprouted melons made of concrete, I could not lie down in any comfortable position, nor put my arms by my sides.  Any attempts to lessen the pressure by breastfeeding ended up  in tears for Lincoln and I.  After making some emergency calls to family to purchase me a breast pump,  I begged to go home (and for some pain killers).  A few hours passed by as we waited, and waited for Lincoln’s final health checks, and then finally we made our escape!  At last we were headed for home – unfinished room, incomplete nursery, unwashed laundry, far too many family members, but home.  And definitely better than hospital.

It’s definitely been a looong time since my last post.  But, again, I have great excuses, which you’ll know all about soon enough, so I’ll just get on with it:

My last post, you will have noticed was on the 21st February.  This also happened to be the last day that Dave and I could call ourselves a DINK couple (Double Income, No Kids).  I wasn’t feeling so great that day.  I thought I just needed to up my fibre intake.  I dutifully chewed through a giant bottle of Extra gum (Warning:  Excessive consumption may have a laxative effect), ate lots of bran, and even chugged down a dose of Metamucil.  I was wondering why after finally going to the bathroom, I didn’t feel any better.  It was then I noticed that my achy back was coming and going rather regularly.  I told myself it was a false alarm.  Statistically, most first babies come late, and this was nine days early.  Could still be a false alarm.  Dave helpfully commented, “I hope you’re not in labour, because I’m exhausted.”

By about 8:30pm, I realised this was most likely labour.  Suddenly I couldn’t really think straight.  Our room wasn’t finished, our hospital bags weren’t packed, and I was completely unprepared.  So I did the most logical thing I could think of – I sat on the end of our bed, and tried to do the ironing.  As you do.  The pain soon drove me to distraction, so I did the next most logical thing, I took a long, hot shower.  For those of you who don’t know this, hospitals time your admittance from midnight to midnight, so if you book in at, say, 11:55pm, guess what?  Those five minutes count as one day!  So despite my contractions being rather strong and painful at this point (10:30pm), I decided to hang tight and try to make it past midnight.  Dave, like some kind of multi-tasking super man managed to time my contractions, bring me water and food, take directions from me on what to pack in our woefully empty suitcase, and compose a birth plan (epidural as last resort thank you).  Miraculously, I made it past midnight with contractions coming every few minutes, and we headed for the hospital.  Somehow, in our hasty planning, we’d forgotten to inform the hospital we were coming.  A big No-No.

We made our way to maternity ward at the hospital with me stopping every few metres to gasp through another contraction.  Upon arriving at the desk, we were thoroughly scolded by a cranky midwife for forgetting to call first, before she handed us over to another nurse with a warm and welcoming “Can you take care of that?!”   I was so embarrassed, insulted and hurt that combined with being in pain, and a bit shell shocked, I exclaimed to Dave that we should leave and go somewhere else.  Being the functioning one, he managed to convince me that really wasn’t an option and we were led to a birthing suite where I tried to recall my name and date of birth to the patient nurse who filled out my admission forms.  And that done, the serious business of giving birth could commence!

At first, things were pretty much the same as at home.  After being informed that I was already 4cm dilated, I was offered pain relief.  Valiantly, I accepted the gas.  How painful could it be?  It was about 1:30am by this time, and things were just ticking along fine.  I was then told I really wasn’t progressing, and my obstetrician we be along soon to break the waters, and this would strengthen the contractions.  No problem, it can’t be too much worse could it?  Well, pretty soon I found out.  My OB arrived, inserted what looked like a crochet hook, and ruptured the membranes – possibly the single most disgusting sensation I have ever felt.  A gush of warm liquid rushed forth, creating the sensation of seriously wetting your pants, and being unable to stop.  Ever.  They don’t tell you about that bit.  I wonder why…

Still thinking things weren’t so bad, I hopped into the shower again.  It didn’t take long before all the heat and gas in the world wasn’t going to ease the pain.  ”This can’t go on for hours and hours can it?”, I asked.  ”No…”, the midwife carefully replied before adding, “Well, maybe.”  OK, perhaps I’ll try the pethidine thanks.  If you think the idea of someone jabbing a needle into your thigh muscle is nasty, believe me, when you’re in labour, you don’t care.  Not a bit.  Compared to the contractions, it tickles!  There I was – naked.  In a shower.  Everything hanging out.  With a stranger stabbing me with a big syringe, and I just  didn’t care.  I did have one problem though – pethidine didn’t work.  Despite not being fully dilated, I couldn’t stop the involuntary pushing, and I had to be escorted back to the bed.  Dave, steady as a metronome, continually offered gentle and soothing encouragement as I wailed like a banshee and screamed that I wanted to die while the midwife silently mouthed to him, “Completely normal.”  At least, that’s what he later told me, but maybe she was yelling it and he just couldn’t hear her over my shrieking.  I was then offered my “last resort” epidural.  I calmly and politely screamed, “ANYTHING!!!!” as the midwife dashed off to make the necessary preparations.

An anaesthetist soon appeared and attempted to introduce himself and explain the risks and side effects of the procedure while I screamed over the top of him and tried to stop pushing.  I’ve decided that men, and women who’ve never been pregnant, shouldn’t be allowed to be anaesthetists because they simply don’t understand that asking a full term pregnant woman to lie on her side and bring her knees up to her chest while in full blown labour is a feat worthy of a televised award ceremony.  After an epic five minutes of attempting to pierce my spine while I writhed and moaned, we had success, and within moments I was relaxed and pain free.    Suddenly, completely composed, I thanked the poor man and cheerfully announced, “Well, I should have done that as soon as I got here!”  Then our baby’s heart rate dropped.  Dramatically.  After reassuring me that it was normal, and would be fine, I heard my midwife grab a phone and say rather urgently, “I need the OB.  Now!”  It must have been all the drugs, because I just happily sat there thinking how wonderful everything was.  Dave, finally able to take a break from comforting duty, promptly fell asleep, utterly exhausted in a large armchair.

My obstetrician arrived, and that’s when I began to get concerned.  There’s something very disconcerting about a doctor arriving in knee high white gumboots and a waterproof apron covered by heavy duty, also waterproof, coat.  Far from thinking about the “miracle of birth”, mental images of being a cow in a slaughter house raced through my head.  But running for dear life isn’t an option when you’re paralysed from the waist down.  I was hastily wrangled into the stirrups (no, they’re not at a comfortable angle like in the movies) as the doctor explained my baby was in distress, and needed to be delivered quickly.  Drugged to the eyeballs I flippantly waved my hand and replied, “Oh, I know.  I’m just not worried about it.”  I was jolted into shock though when he produced a large (and I mean seriously large)  pair of scissors.  ”I’m going to have to cut you.”, was his simple explanation.  Upon seeing the look on my face, the obstetrician, midwife, and Dave all  blurted in unison, “You won’t feel it!!!”  I gritted my teeth and resigned myself to the situation.  A suction cap was then fitted to our baby’s head and within two more contractions, and a snip from the enormous scissors, little Lincoln slipped out into a cold and bright world at 4:10am on the 22nd of February, 2009.  The rest is a drug induced blur as Lincoln was cleaned, weighed, measured and at some point placed in my arms.  His cries turned to contentment as he was then given to Dave and heard his Daddy’s voice cooing softly to him.  I meanwhile was still lying on a hospital bed, feet in the air, in the single most undignified position known to man (and woman!).

And my first words to Dave upon the arrival of this amazing little creature?  ”Well he’s not very pretty is he?”

Yet again, it’s been a while.  Between finally moving into our new home, organising wedding and function flowers, trying to set up a nursery, and pack bags for hospital, I’ve barely had time to even think about my poor, neglected blog.  The interim has however given me time to amass a few amusing stories, the first of which I will now relate:

So after staying with friends and house-sitting for 9 weeks, we finally arrived at our newly renovated room, suitcases, paperwork, and pet parrot in tow.  As we pulled into the yard we were met by my father’s, “Erm…  We’ll have to put you up in hotel for two more days…”.  In the end we stayed on a mattress on the floor under my brother’s house for four nights.  BUT, our room was completed…ish.  On first inspection, it’s beautiful!  On closer inspection, there’s no architraves around a couple of door frames, and the front door has only its undercoat, the flooring in the nursery/office area is painted concrete, and there’s no  edging on the bedroom area carpet, the custom installed air-con doesn’t work, and there’s a massive hole going through from our bedroom to my little bro’s that is covered with cardboard until the mythical time it will be repaired – but it’s livable.  It’s clean, it’s private, and it’s ours!  And for such a fair rental price, I absolutely cannot complain.

Immediately, my relief at having a home was replaced by panic that I was having a baby – soon – and I absolutely needed to get this room set up for a new baby.  On our first day we had an assortment of  bed frame pieces, office desk, computer equipment, and ready to assemble baby furniture all covered with sheets and waiting for some long suffering fool to put it all together.  An amusing aspect to the office and nursery area of our room is that  it used to be a patio and designed to allow water drainage, so the floor is on a slope.  This resulted in Dad and Dave (haha, yes, Dad ‘n’ Dave), assembling furniture, and trialing a growing collection of different sized wood offcuts under each leg of furniture, and measuring painstakingly with a spirit level before declaring each piece “close enough to level”.  If the furniture isn’t levelled, filing cabinets, and bookshelves lean on crazy angles to the walls, which makes you feel as though you’ve wandered into some kind of drunken parallel universe.   It also means that if you sit on an office chair on one side of the room, then lift your feet off the ground, you quickly build up speed before crashing into the computer desk/wall/other furniture on the opposite side.  Wheeeeeeeee!!!!  Not so fun if you’re attempting to push yourself back from the computer desk against the unhelpful effects of gravity.  But really the only thing I’ve found difficult, and truly whinge-worthy is that I’m so cumbersome, and so hot, and so tired, I’m completely useless at getting much done at all.

I’m a do-er.  And when something needs doing, I just want it done.  Now.  This is only exacerbated by a baby being due to arrive pretty much any time he pleases from now on.  We’d been here two days.  I had just spent two days of prep work before delivering wedding bouquets and setting up wedding flowers in the city, before helping – well spectating – while Dad and Dave hauled a solid wood wardrobe from our storage unit.  I had then dusted and bleached said wardrobe.  I should have been, and was exhausted.  But still that inner compulsion propelled me to want to achieve more towards setting up our living quarters.  My feet said otherwise.  It was at this point I made two major misjudgements.  The first – the structural soundness of a chipboard and veneer, two tiered, self assembled bookshelf purchased for $15 from Pick ‘n’ Pay.  The second – the ability to be light and dainty at 37 weeks pregnant.  Still wearing the beautiful – and borrowed – maternity dress I’d worn due to its utter prettiness to my wedding delivery, I took a break by sitting on said bookshelf, as Dave and my brother were discussing “important technological jargon” nearby.  A few minutes later, with no warning whatsoever there was a loud crack as the top shelf of the bookshelf, and I – feet pointing skywards -  collapsed.  Then came one milliseconds reprieve as we both landed on the next shelf down before it too collapsed into the base of the bookshelf, a horrible shredding sound accompanying us all the way down.

Two pairs of horrified eyes turned my way as I sat disoriented upon  chipboard debris, while the legs of the bookshelf remained upright on either side of me, eight screws pointed horizontally inwards, forming a weird kind of macabre throne.  Horror after horror assailed me.  Firstly, how embarrassing!  Secondly, I now had four male arms reaching to pull me upright as I suddenly realised the shredding noise was the once beautiful dress being torn from hem to armpit as I made my way downwards, thus exposing my underwear.  But on top of this, I just didn’t know what was worse – destroying the bookshelf, or destroying the dress.  Finally, the tears that were threatening started to prick my eyes as I wailed, “I broke the booksheeeeelf!”.  Clinging to the ripped edges of the dress, and my modesty, I allowed the guys to help me up, and Dave escorted me to the bathroom where I begged him to leave me while I cleaned up.  By this time cuts and scratches from the screws had begun to bleed, and I sobbed as I looked at the torn remnants of the dress, now splattered with blood as well.  All hope of repairing the garment was lost as I studied the torn black lace which had been embroidered onto the white cotton panels.  I burst into a fresh round of tears, this time crying, “I broke the dreeeess!”.  Dave returned with some fresh clothes for me, and to fret and poke disinfectant onto my wounds, all the while with me sobbing over the torn dress.

Eventually, I was patched up, cleaned up, and feeling much better.  A sore neck and bump on the back of the head told me I had also bumped it on the cot as I had fallen, but nothing really hurt too much – just my pride.  I went back to our room where I found Dave happily taking photographs of the bookshelf carcass.  I began to laugh, a little at first, then hysterically as I realised how funny the whole thing was.  ”I should blog this.”, I said.  Dave’s reply:  ”That’s what the photos are for.”

Two weeks later, what had been some impressive bruises are still faintly visible, and the only real scar is from a nasty little hole behind my knee.  And in case you’re wondering, I phoned the kind friend who’d loaned me the dress to apologise.  She was not concerned about the dress, and actually much more concerned for my well-being.  I’ve resolved to keep my eye out for something similar, so I can at least try to replace it!

Being in the market for a baby car seat, I’d been doing some research on brands, types, and price ranges.  After recovering from my initial shock when looking at prices, I decided that a convertible one (suitable from newborn – toddler) would suit our needs best.  I then set about  trying to source the cheapest one available that still met the appropriate safety standards.  My best find was $168, which is no mean feat given that these things can cost in excess of $500 with the average at about $300.  Then, miracle of miracles, a dear friend informed me that she’d like to buy us something for the baby, and decided she’d get us a car seat!  Then, it happened…  Browsing online, I stumbled across the latest Target catalogue.  There was a baby sale – in two days – and right on the front cover was a Fisher Price convertibe car seat reduced from $300 to $150!

I HAD to have that car seat.  I was utterly convinced it was a “bait” sale item, and there would only be one or two in stock in each store.  I kicked into ultimate control mode and began setting up an elaborate (hopefully) fool-proof system.  I’d seen the crowds jostling for prime position outside similar sales, and knew what I’d be up against.  So, at precisely 8:30am  Mum was to be waiting outsideTarget at Carindale, I would be at Target, Mt Gravatt, my sister-in-law would be at Target, Browns Plains, and a friend would be waiting at Target, Springwood.  Between the four of us – that car seat would be mine!  When anyone had their hands firmly grasping it, they would phone my mobile, and thus avoid all four of us buying one – should we each manage to nab one.  After thinking it through, I calmed down.  After all, God knew I needed a car seat, He knew I wanted THAT car seat, and if He wanted me to have it, I would get one.  So I organised to go with my sister in law to Target, Browns Plains, while just Mum went to another store.

The day of the sale arrived.  Anxiously I eyed the clock, and drove to the shop half an hour early.  After navigating my way through the unfamiliar car parks at Browns Plains, I ended up parking at the opposite end of the centre, then waddling down to Target where I found Jacqui calmly waiting.  There were only a couple of people there, so we took a bench seat near the entrance and waited.  Within a few minutes, more and more people began turning up.  Dad’s lined up, hands firmly gripping the handles of shopping trolleys while energetic children swung from the sides.  Seasoned Mums with littlies in tow stood determinedly by, eyes fixed on the electric entrance doors.  And rounded bellies of various sizes mingled about nervously, all in expectant silence.   My anxiety increased as crowds gathered, but I maintained an outward appearance of calm.

“How many of these bellies do you think are going after my car seat?”, I muttered in a low voice to Jacqui.  Casting an expert eye about the crowd, Jacqui replied knowingly, “Well, she’ll be using the car seat from her two older ones…” as she motioned to a third time Mum nearby, “And she’s….”  I wasn’t listening, I was too busy nervously eyeballing my fellow competitors one by one, imagining myself in a tug of war over my prized baby seat, and wondering which of them I was likely to succeed over.  And then, about five minutes before opening time, someone inched forward.  Not much, but the crowd caught on.  Everyone was suddenly clustering closer to the doors.  ”Quick!”, I said to Jacqui, they’re moving in!” .  Unperturbed, Jacqui assured me it was just the mob mentality.  It was all ok.  Just stay seated.  I squirmed in my seat like a toddler who’d just scoffed a bag of red lollies and badly needed the bathroom and whined, “But I want to join the mob!”  I leaned forward in anticipation as staff began milling about inside the store.  I inched forward, right to the edge of the seat as the clock ticked ever closer to 8:30am and a Target staff member moved into the position by the door, finger poised to hit the button that would send the roller doors up, and the crowds hurtling in, but amazingly, I remained – just – seated.

At last it happened.  The gut twisting climax arrived.  The doors began to open.  Mums, Dads, kids, trolleys, and round bellies mashed together as people ducked under the still half open doors, weaving about display stands and running for the baby section.  Shooting from my seat like a rocket, I joined the throng.  Smug shoppers who’d already grabbed a trolley from the nearby grocery store dashed by as a throng of us crammed into the trolley bay and fought and tugged at bent and wobbly trolleys stuck together as only shopping trolleys can.  I didn’t mind though.  I had a secret weapon – my lithe and fit sister-in-law, who knew the layout of Target like the back of her hand, ducked and weaved her way through the jumble of shoppers and waddling women to reach my baby seat at all costs.  I would meet her with the trolley once the bounty was secured.

Once I had disentangled a trolley, and managed to control its tendancy to career every way but forward – as trolleys will – I headed for the baby section, secretly hopeful that Jacqui would be waiting, and in possession of the lucrative and elusive baby seat.  Success!!!  Jacqui had won the prize!  As had at least 30 other shoppers – Target had a whole pallet load of them.  Shortly after, my phone rang – Mum had also secured one at Target, Carindale.  Amusingly, she was phoning from the courtesy desk as in her rush to be on time, she had left her mobile at home.  To end our happy story, the seat was lay-byed, ready to be collected by the dear, dear friend who offered to buy it, and we also got the exact cot mattress I wanted at 25% off too.  And so begins a long life of lining up with other crazed shoppers, frothing at the mouth in anticipation at every child related sale within 100km.  I used to shake my head at those people.

As a side note, I recently saw a baby car seat for $30 cheaper.  Such is life.

It’s 34 weeks, and I look like a walking eggplant.  My feet hurt, my neck aches, and I just feel tired.  I’m having trouble sleeping, mainly because I wake up with a dull pain radiating from my hip and ribs from the sheer heaviness of lying on my side.  Then I get up, and my feet hurt from the sheer heaviness of being upright.  One of my life savers has been floating about in the pool at our house-sitting location – aaaahhhh… the weightlessness!  But with all this heavy, slow, and dull feeling, I’ve allowed myself to become quite frumpy – and my eyebrows have suffered the most.  Not least because I can’t get close enough to the mirror to see what I’m doing – thanks again to the eggplant effect.  Actually, I will rather sheepishly admit that for all of my married life, it’s been Dave who actually grooms my eyebrows.

What started as a novelty for him, and huge leap of faith for me when we were engaged became his full-time job because he was surprisingly good at it.  After a few tips from me in the early days, he’s managed to deftly sculp and shape my eyebrows to near perfection.  With pregnancy however, my pain recepters became more sensitive, and I banned him from touching them, instead preferring to do a quick tidy up myself as the need arose.  Enough was enough however when recently I was shocked by the appearance of my neglected and furry forhead.  Not having the stamina, or patience myself, I once more sidled up to Dave and winningly requested he make me look like a human again (as opposed to a rotund yeti).

I patiently lay uncomfortably on my back under a light, breathing deeply to counteract the large baby inside that crushed my lungs while Dave spent quite a considerable length of time working his magic.  Nervousness threatened to overwhelm me a couple of times as I thought he seemed to be plucking an awful lot, but I quickly reassured myself that it was long overdue, and he’d always done a lovely job.  And so I barely glanced at them later in the mirror, and went to sleep satisfied that I would no longer look like some feral Dave had found foraging in the wilderness.

The next day dawned bright and clear, and I thought to check out Dave’s good work.  I stared in the mirror, then looked again, before I said – as evenly and calmly as I could – “You plucked down the arches of my eyebrows.”  Quite proudly Dave said, “Yes!  I flattened them for you!”  An explanation from me followed which was, I fear,  not so even and calm, that I’m supposed to have arches.  Women love to have arches.  I have – or had – very nice natural arches.  And he better hope they grow back!

I’m not sure what possessed him to suddenly change  techniques and remove the top half of my eyebrows, and I don’t know that I ever will find out, but I really can’t complain can I?  I have a lovely husband who actually plucks my eyebrows!  Not to mention grooms my toenails – and that was even before I couldn’t reach them on my own.  I think when he comes home from work, I’ll give him a big hug and kiss and tell him how wonderful I think he is.  Better yet, I think I’ll go and have lunch with him.

Well recently I’ve been experiencing the increasingly “wonderful” sensations of our rapidly growing baby’s movements.  At 18 weeks, I felt a sickening, slithering sensation inside which gave me mental images of eels sliding through silty mud.  By about 25 weeks this had given way to amusing bumps and thumps – my favourite being the time I was lying on my side, and experienced what I can only describe as a heavy thud.  Again, it prompted a mental image – this time it was of a pro wrestler leaping from the guard rails to body slam his prostrate opponent.  Other interesting sensations have been experienced too – such as sharp jabbing pains in unmentionable areas, and the feeling that my bladder is being poked at from the inside (because it is), thus causing an urgent feeling of panic as I put my pelvic floor muscles to work whilst anxiously scanning my surroundings for the nearest bathroom.  This isn’t good when driving on the freeway as happened to me one day that junior was having a seriously great time exploring the walls of my bladder – repeatedly.

We are now almost at week 33 and the not-so- little guy’s movements are now encroaching into the “seriously uncomfortable” zone.  My last OB appointment revealed, that like a good little fellow, he’s already head down, blissfully unaware that this will make his crushing and bewildering entry into a bright, cold world a little easier.  This also means his feet are merrily kicking away in the upper section of my abdomen, looming ever closer to my rib cage.  I’ve been informed by many, many mothers that what really hurts is when they gouge their little feet and toes under the rib cage.  Ludicrously, they also speak of it with a look of pure joy on their faces.  Having never had a baby before, I still am bewildered by the sheer number of women talking of pain, vaginal tears, stitches, hemorrhoids, marathon labours, and emergency cesareans with a grin on their face, before finishing with words to the effect of “it’s a wonderful experience”.  Perhaps it’s the drugs.

But anyways, as I was saying – feet, close to ribs…  Even though he’s not quite big enough yet to get under my ribs, there are still times that a stray foot causes incredible pain.  There I’ll be, walking through a shopping centre, minding my own business when suddenly, without warning, I’ll let out an involuntarily gasp as a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through my abdomen.  I’ll instinctively grasp at the area, only to feel a tiny, seemingly innocent body part jutting outwards.  I may mutter words such as “Horrible, little beastie!”, but actually, all is forgiven.  There’s something “cute” about it.  And if Dave’s around, I’ll hurry him over to feel it too.  And hiccups.  Sometimes this creature inside will have up to three bouts of hiccups in a day, once again prompting me to get an indulgent Dave to “come and feel this”. Again.  For the third time today…

Dave must have got tired of all this sitting about “feeling the belly” because the other day, as I once again ushered him over to “feel this”, instead of cupping one hand over my now swollen abdomen, he cupped both hands into a crude megaphone against my stomach, before leaning over and shouting, “HELLOOOO!!!”.  Once I recovered from my surprise, I laughed and said, “You know, he can hear us talking by now.”  To which Dave replied “Oh, can he?”.  I pondered upon this before answering, “Well, not anymore…”

Uh Oh!  If I thought I was experiencing “baby brains” before, this latest episode has proven that I ain’t seen nothin yet!  It all began at the end of November…

Dave’s job involves updating websites for various companies.  One day, he excitedly sent me an email with a link to one of the websites he had done an update for.  They sell model cars.  The model car that had caught his eye was a red Mazda, RX-7.  A replica of the car he sold for a pittance to help pay my medical expenses (he assured me it was worth it for the baby, but being rather attached to the car myself and just a wee bit emotional, I retorted that I’d rather the car).  Anyway, I was very grateful and excited that he showed me the link, as I was quite stumped as to what to buy him for Christmas.

I immediately set about ordering the car.  Then the company owner contacted me and informed me that there was none in stock, however he may have one in his storage shed at home and would get back to me.  Alternatively, he said they did have a green one.  I told him that no, it must be red, and that my husband would break his website if he couldn’t get it for me.  I was joking, and I think he knew that, but he still sounded as though he found me just a little unhinged.  That’s ok – I am.  Anyway, long story short, he got back to me, and informed me that he did indeed have one in stock!  I set about paying for it and felt rather stoked at having got him exactly what he wanted (short of a real-sized one that is).

Fast forward a couple of weeks, and I was sitting about wondering what to buy Dave for Christmas.  Excited to find that ABC was offering Dr Who boxed sets for $80 instead of the usual $100, I ordered that, then prayed it would arrive in time.  After a computer glitch on their part which told me the “in stock” item was actually on back-order, then an error on my part involving me giving them the wrong expiry date for my credit card, it all arrived safely, on time, and Christmas was a success.

Then, on Boxing Day, something suddenly occurred to me.  I had ordered Dave a car.  And paid for it.  And it didn’t arrive!  Not only that, I had completely forgotten until now!  And it was public holiday, so I could do nothing about it (I’m a “fix it now!” kind of person).  After checking my bank account and confirming that the money had indeed been deducted, then checking my emails and finding a confirmation notice from the company informing me my order had been processed, I was even more agitated and concluded that it must have been “lost” in the post – or basically, I had paid for a product that some horrible person had subsequently stolen!  Finally, I resigned myself to the inevitable conclusion that I could do nothing about it until the next day at least, and satisfied myself with saying a few choice things about useless companies, and thieves who stole people’s Christmas presents.

By the dawning of Saturday morning, I had remembered that the company sent things by registered post, so I should be able to confirm with them if it had indeed been sent.  I restlessly sat waiting for 9am to arrive so I could phone them and sort the problem out.  Unfortunately, they weren’t open, and I was thrown into a fresh round of being annoyed at useless companies.  Setting my bad mood aside, Dave and I went to my parents’ place to try and locate some paperwork I needed (see post about our living situation), when just as we were leaving, I peered under our bed, far back in the dark recesses, and spotted a medium sized postage box…

Then it all came back to me:  Yes, a box did arrive, several weeks ago.  Dave collected it, and told me he had a parcel addressed to me.  I forbid him to open it.  He pranced about in glee shrieking “You got me the car!” in a sing-song voice.   He then brought it to the house we were staying at.  I then took it back to Mum and Dad’s and hid it under the bed.  THEN COMPLETELY FORGOT THE ENTIRE THING.  I am SO grateful for useless companies don’t open the day after boxing day, and so spare themselves from the tirades of mindless women who have completely lost their marbles.  Oh, help me.

Hello friends.  You may have noticed I disappeared for a bit.  Well, I do apologise, and after this fascinating explanation, I’m sure all will be forgiven…

You see, in September, we decided that moving out of our share situation would be best all round (well, actually, our housemates tactfully, and gently informed us they weren’t sure they wanted to live with a baby.  I wholeheartedly agreed with them, but sadly acknowledged that they actually had a choice, I didn’t.)  And so, we all amicably agreed to terminate our lease in November and find other living arrangements.  It wasn’t long before panic set in.  Due to Dave and I both having run our own businesses from when we got married, all our savings had gone, and debts had piled up.  We really couldn’t afford the current rental prices offered, and I couldn’t go out and get a full time job which is what Dave has done this year.  Who would employ a woman who’s six months pregnant then happily give her time off to do the weddings and functions she has booked in for her own business?  And have her leave in two months to have a baby?  I wouldn’t.

So there we were – impending homelessness.  *Trumpets herald the arrival of our superheros*  My parents, astonished at the snot dribbling, incoherent, tear sprouting mess on their couch – that would be me – asked Dave what was wrong.  Instantly they offered us their spare room to live in.  Now I don’t mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, but who really wants to live with their parents?  I mean, these are the people I spent my entire teenage years plotting my escape from.  Which is possibly the main motivation for marrying my first husband – an ill fated decision to bond myself to a drug addicted pathological liar who subsequently moved to Sydney without informing me after a miserable two years of marital stress.  And no, I’m not exaggerating.   But needs must, and once considered logically, we realised that one room would really not be appropriate for my business equipment, Dave’s office equipment, our bedroom, and a nursery.

In a fit of overwhelming generosity, my parents then announced that this was no problem, they would enclose part of their front patio, and make an internal doorway from the spare room into it, thus creating enough space for a bedroom, nursery, and office!  After confirming with them that this indeed could be done within two months, we gratefully accepted.  After all, they live close to Dave’s work, and the hospital.  Then, in true crushed pride style, I bawled for three days over the failure of being 28, married, expecting a child, and moving in with my parents.  Finally I wiped up the last of my snot, and told myself to buck up, and just do what we gotta do.  It wasn’t forever.  It was the best start for our child that we could give.  We could even start to save for our own place – something we couldn’t do if we stayed in the rental market.  We then set about moving most of our furniture into storage, so come end of lease day, we only had a few things to move to the parental home.

Moving day arrived.  Unfortunately my parents’ fit of overwhelmingly generous offers had not extended to actually having the new room completed.  Or even remotely close.  Or having anywhere to put the moving truck of furniture we arrived with.  This is despite the fact that we nervously checked several times during the two month “building period” that all would be done on time (and receiving a rather hostile response to our well waranted doubt), AND sitting down twice to outline – on paper – exactly what we would need to fit in, and when we had hired the truck for.  Of course, in true pregnant woman style, I freaked.  Not only that, with the exception of wonderful Dave, my family accused me of being unreasonable.  Without a hint of apology it was suggested that we just “put up with the clutter for a couple of weeks”.  It was also suggested that it was quite reasonable to leave my 3-door, full size display fridge, worth over $5000 on the front patio, because you know, rain, wind and dust won’t hurt it…  And to top it all off, I was then accused of expecting the Taj Mahal (no, just a room would be nice).   Then our kitchen fridge blew up.  Which was probably just as well seeing as the space that was supposed to be cleared for it, wasn’t.

Well, we “settled in”.   Settled in to a room that is with no space except to lie on the bed, or sit cramped on a chair while ominous looking stacks of packing boxes, office furniture and business equipment teetered precariously overhead.  And despite actually liking my parents, my father and I are best kept separated by at least a room’s distance.  Having no space of our own I was now forced to share bathroom, kitchen, and lounge areas with my family whilst a deep and burning resentment simmered just below the surface.  After two days, I snapped.  A blazing row ensued, and quite simply, we left.  I simply could not stay another minute.  I could not cram into a room just for some privacy while my family repeatedly knocked on the door to “tell me something”, or ask to drink our fruit juice in the fridge, or be told that we’ll need to move even more stuff out of the way so they could cut a hole in the wall to make a doorway (no, that hadn’t even been done).  Long story short – after driving aimlessly looking for a hotel before wearily giving up at 2am, we ended up letting ourselves back into our old house (we still had a key and a few days of the lease left)at about 3am and sleeping on the floor.  Mercifully we were too exhausted to notice how uncomfortable sleeping on a floor is.  Actually, Dave did amazingly well to stay composed while driving around to hotel after hotel with me wailing and rocking back and forth in the passenger seat of the car.

The next day seemed hopeless to me.  We both set about making phone calls – me in the rare patches of coherence in between fits of sobbing, Dave in between trying to console me.  At first things looked pretty bleak, but then some friends said we could use their spare room for a week or so.  They were conveniently situated on the other side of town, but it was a roof over our heads!  Then the most amazing phone call of all – a good friend had not one, but TWO different families tell her they were requiring a house-sitter.  All up – 9 weeks of rent free accommodation!  Once I managed to subdue my homicidal urges, we approached my parents to calmly discuss the situation, and enquire their estimation of having the room finished.  We were told two weeks, but wisely didn’t believe it.  I even managed to resist the urge to throw something at my father’s head when told that I didn’t appreciate how busy he was and that I need to be more understanding.  Apparently being six months pregnant and homeless isn’t a justified cause to be upset.   That was four weeks ago and our room still needs wiring, flooring, internal walls, a new ceiling PLUS they still don’t have that hole cut in the wall.  We’ve been living out of suitcases for four weeks now – collecting our mail from my parents’ house, and trying to keep track of bills, and run my business from three different locations.

And yet, we’ve never had so many blessings.  Having been quite mad at God over the whole situation I shook my fist at him and said quite a few words that would make a truckie blush.  And this is after years of accusing Him of not existing (but that’s another story for another time).  And despite this, not only have we had accommodation appear right when we needed it, both families we are house sitting for – who I haven’t named to protect their privacy – have offered to let us stay on even after they’re home.  Not only this, a long term friend of Dave’s has a home (which we never knew about) that is not only vacant, but he is willing to rent it to us at a very reasonable rate (we may still take this offer – we just need to make an appointment with our bank to see if we can consolidate some debts so we can afford it).  And if you think that’s amazing – a friend of a friend ended up with a whole room of spare carpet after re-laying their house – gladly donated to us as it was in their way!

And on a very serious level, this ongoing saga, which quite frankly would make for a great sitcom story line has humbled me greatly and brought me to a sobering realisation.  In situations like these, it’s where we need to trust God the most, and put our faith in His love for us.  I didn’t.  I fought, cursed, and doubted every step of the way.  If I was God, I would have kicked me in the head – undeserving, ungrateful scum!  But he didn’t.  He blessed us when I deserved it the least.  It’s taken this humbling experience for me to finally learn, that I cannot, not matter how I exhaust myself by trying, earn His grace.

I’m a little concerned our baby may develop a nervous tic once he’s born, but so far all tests and scans show that he has escaped with no harm.  Thanks again God.

This week I received an interesting Email in my business account.  I thought at the time it seemed “scammy”, but still sent a polite reply just in case.   By the second email though, it was obviously a scam, and by the third message, I decided (with encouragement from Dave and I.T. bro Paul) to just have a lot of fun with it.  To be on the safe side, we removed some identifying details off my website first.  The results are as follows:

Message 1:
This is Rev Mark Robinson,I have contact you to know if you carry pillar candle in stock,i need you to get back to me with the price on Stylos Pillar Candle Trays .Sizes: Small = 10″ x 3″ x 7″, Medium = 16″ x 3″ x 7″, Large = 19″ x 3″ x 7″.let me know the type and size that you have in stock or you can make a special order for me.I will like you to get back to me with a price on that now okay so that i will know the quantity that i will require for my order asap.Let me know if you accept all major Credit Card as the for of payment so that we can procced.Kindly get back to me now so that we can procced..
Regards..
Rev Mark Robinson…

Reply:
Hi Mark,
I’m not sure that you have contacted the correct person. I run a wedding flower business and do not stock pillar candles for sale. I purchase them from decor hire companies/craft supply stores if and when I require them for any weddings I provide flowers for.

I wish you luck in your search for the products you require.

Best regards,
Belinda Muller
FlowerChix.

Message 2:
HELLO BELINDA,
THANK YOU FOR THE MAIL AND CAN YOU GET BACK TO ME WITH THE TYPES OF WEDDING FLOWERS THAT YOU CARRY NOW SO THAT WE CAN PROCEED..

REGARDS..
REV MARK.

Reply:
Hi Mark,

I’M SORRY I ONLY PROCEED WITH WEDDING ORDERS AFTER AN OFFICIAL CONSULTATION HAS TAKEN PLACE.

Regards,
Belinda.

Message 3!!!:
Hello,
Thank you very much for the mail and i want you to order this WEDDING and i will like you to get back to me with the price on that so that i will know the quantity that i will require..its going to be picked up at your location as soon as its ready for pick.Let me know if you accept all major Credit Card as the form of payment so that we can procced with the full payment now..Kindly get back to me with the price now on that now so that we can procced with the full payment on my Credit Card now you can contact me with your contact Number as well…
Regards..
Rev Mark Robinson…..

Reply:
Hi Mark,

As per your request, I have attached a quote for an ENTIRE WEDDING, complete with bride and groom. Due to you declining a consultation to discuss your specific requirements, I have provided a quotation for our “Gold Plated Platinum Deluxe Wedding Package” which is AVAILABLE NOW!
Should this not suit your price range, we have the “YeeHaw, It’s a Weddin’ Y’All Package” complete with authentic rusty pick-up trucks, COMING SOON!

We accept payment by Cash, Personal cheque, solid gold lemmings, or Sendorian Plintos

For further details please call
+61 7 3835 4666 or 1800 333 000 (be sure to ask for the Fraud Division)

Regards,
Belinda Muller
FlowerChix.

Attached:
scamwedding1

*Please note that the above phone numbers are for the ACCC and the Australian Federal Police respectively.

Interestingly, I never heard back from him. *sigh*

Last week, Dave and I had a friend visit.  This friend proved their utmost friend worthiness by bringing over cake.  Not just any cake – a Cheesecake Shop cake.  And not just a Cheesecake Shop cake – a large Cheesecake Shop cake.  Not knowing what our favourite cake might be, she thoughtfully opted for the half/half option of chocolate mud cake, and classic cheesecake (what else?).  Like I said – very, very cool friend!  We all chowed down over coffee and chat, and when it came time to go home, our incredibly awesome friend refused to take ANY of the cake home with her, despite my insistence.  I looked forward to enjoying delicious cake with my daily cuppa for the next few days.  I was feeling so good-willed, I told our housemates that they were also welcome to some cake, and they would find it in our fridge – or so I thought.

The next day saw me held up in appointments, busy-ness and away from home until after dinner.  It was during what began as an innocent chat with Dave later that he mentioned that he’d taken the cheesecake to work with him.  Now Dave has a somewhat irritating habit of not just taking the portion he will eat that day to work for lunch, he will take the entire lot – head of lettuce, loaf of bread, 500g tin of tuna – you get the picture.  This didn’t ring any alarm bells (it should have) as mud cake is my favourite, and I assumed he’d just taken the easy to remove cheesecake half in it’s foil tray.  However, my blood ran ice cold when a few seconds later Dave continued with “…while {work mate’s name} was eating his mud cake…”  I hastily interrupted with “You took the mud cake too?!!”  Dave, nonchalantly says “Yeah.  I thought you didn’t want it.”

WHAT?!  I can’t even begin to comprehend what he was thinking!  His reasoning:  That I tried to make our friend take some cake home with her means I didn’t want it.  I was being POLITE!  My actual desires were to snatch the entire cake and run off cackling maniacally to some hidey-hole and not come out for three days.  I was furious.  Beyond furious.  I was almost speechless with rage (but not quite).  Dave sat confused while I gesticulated wildy, ranting and raving about how I was so angry with him I felt sick.  How dare he take the ENTIRE CAKE to work to share with his work mates…And his boss…And his boss’ kids…And his boss’ wife…And his boss’ wife’s mother… and not me!? He didn’t even ask if I wanted any!  Not only that, now I’m a liar to our housemates who probably wondered if I was some sort of sick prankster luring them into our dismally empty refrigerator with the promise of non-existent cake!  How could he???  I continued on and on about not even knowing the man I married, the inconsideration of his actions, the sheer lack of thought, etc, etc, etc.  I then demanded he go and buy me a new cake.  Right then.  At 9:30 at night.  He said no.  Eventually, through calming down – outwardly – and sharing my side rationally, I got an apology.  But still no cake!

Now I know this blog is full of amusing, hormone induced over-reactions, but do any other women out there see where I’m coming from?  I am a little bit normal aren’t I?