Most mornings (at approximately 2am) will find me lying awake, cursing the growing creature in my womb as I grimace and groan with whatever malady has awoken me.  Some nights it’s nausea, some nights it’s gas pain, or a backache, or sore kidneys, or I could just need to pop to the loo.  Usually I manage to fall asleep again by 3:30am, but if I’m lucky it’ll be one of those nights where I’m feeling a combination of several of the above.  If I’m really lucky, it will be all of them, culminating in the final showdown of a gut spasming, breath stopping vomiting crescendo.  You know the type – where you huddle over the toilet, covered in sweat while tears stream from your red, swollen eyes and tendrils of mucous hang from your nose and lips as you desperately try to gulp air down to your lungs while stomach acids and bile fight with equal strength in the opposite direction.  Yeah, I think we’ve all experienced a violent stomach bug before.

Well it was one of these nights (about an hour before “the climax”) when Dave, awakened by my discomfort got up to use the bathroom.  My irises contracted painfully as he flicked on the ensuite light.  Then just as suddenly it flicked off and they relaxed.  And then it came on again.  And off.  Thoroughly bemused I asked Dave as soon as he got back to bed, “Why did you keep turning the light on and off?”  Dave answered, “I wake up too much if I turn the light on, then I can’t get back to sleep.”  By now I’m really confused and ask, “So why did you keep turning it on?”  His answer:  ”To make sure I was aiming straight.”

Momentarily distracted from my misery, I couldn’t help giggling.  At least I’m not the only one with nocturnal issues.

When I first discovered I was pregnant, I was overwhelmed with the desire and determination to be the best pregnant Mummy in the world.  No unhealthy craving was going to get the better of me, oohh no, I would be eating the freshest and most nutritious salads and fruits, nourishing my growing baby with a well-balanced and scientifically applauded diet.  And no matter how much I wanted chips, chocolate, or ice cream, I would stick to my guns and remember what was best for the baby.  I was a stupid know-nothing.

Fast forward eight weeks and my best laid plans have been obliterated.  First, I couldn’t eat anything, but now the only things I want to eat, and indeed can eat without violently ejecting it again, are the very things that made me turn up my nose in snobbish disgust.  Think Coke and McDonald’s.  Every day will find me lined up in the McDonald’s drive through, patiently awaiting my turn at the speaker box so I can rattle off my order – “A McFeast Deluxe with no onions, and a small coke please…. No, not the value meal, just the burger and coke thanks”.  I wouldn’t be surprised if every staff member in the place is now just as familiar with my order as I am and say, “It’s the McFeast lady again.”  And I’ve become familiar with the staff too.  I can pretty much catagorise all their staff into different “personality groups”.

First, there’s a few emaciated-in-that-trendy-way teenage girls with facial piercings and hair they must have spent at least three hours straightening.  These girls are quite efficient at taking your order, not because they are concientious about their job, but because they just want to get rid of you as fast as possible.  The look of bored disinterest on their face confirms the irritated tone in their voice as they take your money and direct you to the next window, clearly infuriated that there’s yet another annoying customer to deal with in the car behind you.  Alternatively you could get a friendly and well padded Maori or Islander girl who’s super pleasant and calls you “mate”.  I haven’t had a guy take my order yet.

Then in the kitchen there’s the burger maker who does his/her job as quickly and uncarefully as possible.  A sliver of tomato and a few shreds of lettuce top the piece of cheese which dangles precariously out the side of the burger.  The whole meal is held together – barely – by a trickle of sauce and mayo.  Or on the other extreme, there’s the overzealous and very enthusiatic trainee.  These burgers are great!  Cheese is placed centrally on the meat pattie, creating a perfect coverage of even flavour.  This is topped with at least two (sometimes three!) thick slices of tomato and a mountain of lettuce.  The only time this burger sux is when they forgot you asked for no onions.  It can also be a bit difficult to eat one while driving as the masses of mayonaise and sauce cause all the pieces to slide around like lubricated discs while mayo drenched lettuce manages to fall beyond the borders of the napkins placed in your lap and create suspicious looking stains on your pants leg.  I always relish these burgers as I’m terrified that by tomorrow, the guy/gal who makes them will have been seriously reprimanded – or fired! – for their uneconomical wastage of salads and sauces.

And finally, the staff who pass you your order through the final window.  I have a theory that these people are far more pleasant than the one who took the order because they are also serving walk-in customers.  When I was in customer service we had a big, scary woman who sternly overlooked all check-out operaters, frowning at us menacingly while lifting the corners of her lips with her fingers into a frightening grimace and mouthing “SMILE!” at us.  Maccas probably isn’t that strict, but I imagine they are trained to be pleasant, and when you think about it, this would be pretty hard considering some of the crap I’ve seen them put up with.  I secretly suspect they all take mood enhancing drugs, and therefore can’t be unpleasant, even if they tried.

And all this makes me think.  When I used to serve complete strangers, I could catagorise them too… “The Monthlies Lady” for example would come through my supermarket checkout with three items – feminine hygeine products, pain killers, and chocolate.  So turning the tables, what would Maccas staff think of me?  Obsessive Compulsive?  Habitual User?  Snobby Cow Who Judges Everyone?  I’d love to know.

Well Dave and I had an argument today.  One that we’ve had before, and generally follows this format:
I do something I shouldn’t -> Dave reacts with annoyance -> I realise my error and apologise -> Dave forgives me.
But not today.  Today it was more like this:
I did something I shouldn’t -> Dave reacted with annoyance -> I realised my error and hated him for pointing it out and got mad back -> Dave, certain in his “rightness” asserted his position -> I – infuriated – hurled a floristry pin at his ergonomic computer keyboard hoping it would fall between the keys and cause him some inconvenience in the very least and stormed off seeking some form of way to get even (for what?!  It was my fault!  But you can’t tell a pregnant woman that – even when it’s yourself!)

So there I am lying in bed having stalked down the hall and slammed the bedroom door behind me.  I’m furious.  I’m mentally willing Dave to follow me and try and talk to me so I can scream at him to “GET LOST!!!”(or something less pleasant), but his cheery, “Buh-Bye!” as I stormed from the scene of the argument tells me that’s not going to happen.  I spy a small plate on his bedside table and am gripped with the urge to smash it.  I resist momentarily, telling myself that it’s not an appropriate reaction before combating that reasoning with “Appropriate be damned!  I want to break something!”.  And so the plate is frisbeed across the bedroom, colliding with a pedestal fan before hitting a wardrobe door and falling unharmed to the carpeted floor.  It didn’t break, and I am even angrier!  What’s worse is I’m seething, while Dave – the enemy – is a short distance away, happily working on his computer, completely nonplussed by my irrational anger.  By this stage I’m positive a Peanuts-style black, angry cloud is forming above my head.  Suddenly I begin to grin, and even chuckle as I hatch a vengeful plan.

Maintaining a stony silence, I enter the office and make off with a substantial wad of computer paper.  I answer Dave’s questions regarding what I’m doing with it, and do I really need that much with, “I’m wasting it, and yes, I need every last piece!”.  Next I grab a large roll of sticky tape and a thick black marker pen before papering the outside of our bedroom doors (did I mention we have double doors to our bedroom?) with every last piece of his crisp white computer paper.  Dave pops his head out of his office and asks, “What are you doing?  Are you going to write ‘Go away Poo Head!’?, and I loathe him even more for knowing me so well.  Then I get the marker and in very large, very bold, very spiky capital letters I print:

“HI DAVE, IN ANSWER TO YOUR QUESTION, I’M WASTING YOUR <underlined> COMPUTER PAPER GLEEFULLY, AND WITH GAY ABANDON BECAUSE IT’S YOURS <triple underlined> AND I’M MAD AT YOU!  YOU REALLY SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO GET CRANKY AT AN IRRATIONAL, EMOTIONAL, PREGNANT WOMAN! AND YES <underlined> I KNOW THIS IS INFANTILE BUT IT MAKES ME VERY, VERY HAPPY!  AND NO <underlined> I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!”

It’s at this point I hear Dave come out of his office again and approach me from behind.  First comes silence, then he is sniggering and holding back hoots of laughter.  His reaction inspires the last line of my tirade:  “P.S.  STOP LAUGHING!!!”, before I too give in to the hilarity of the situation and we’re both laughing.  You could correctly guess that the argument is over.

Later when the moment has passed and I’m completely rational (for now) I realised that the whole time I was stewing, Dave’s precious electric guitar was in the bedroom with me.  I could have exacted Earth shattering revenge by simply dropping a note on his desk saying “I’m alone with your guitar…”.  It’s a very good thing I didn’t realise it at the time, because I can honestly say, without an ounce of blasphemy, God really does only know what I would have done to it!

Yesterday was our anniversary.  Too sore and queasy to do anything remotely romantic, we made the best of it by having McDonald’s not just for breakfast – but dinner as well!  Dave also spent a good few hours working on his laptop in bed as I fitfully slumbered beside him – together time!  And on our evening trip to Maccas, we popped into the video store and picked up a copy of Footloose – weird pregnancy cravings extend to movies as well as food it seems.

Unable to wear my jeans – not because they won’t do up, but because any pressure on my stomach results in vomit-inducing pain- I was dressed very glamorously in tracksuit pants.  And because of the stomach pressure thing, they must be worn pulled up over my stomach, Steve Erkel style, with the waist band just below my bra line, or alternatively scooped below my belly, exposing my bloated abdomen to the shocked world as it peeks from below my top – attractive! After a breakfast of craving-satisfying bacon and egg mcmuffin, and my midday sleep, it was time for the evening program and we headed off to the video store followed by Maccas yet again.  Yay!

Wanting to have some sort of “anniversary treat” with dinner, I decided I’d quite like an almond magnum ice cream.  I was highly disappointed when the shop had every flavour except almond, so I settled on what I thought would be a satisfactory substitute – peppermint.  Paying for our movie, ice creams and microwave popcorn, we headed on the the place of the golden arches, where I purchased another of my recent cravings – a McFeast Deluxe (with no onions) at the drive-thru.

Quite impatient and hungry, I tucked into my ice cream only to realise that peppermint was not such a satisfactory substitute after all.  I tucked it back into it’s wrapper, placed it in my handbag (what’s wrong with my brain?), and started on the burger.  Half way through, the pressure on my stomach and unfortunate ice cream choice became all too much.  Frantically I threw various items aside and lunged for the bucket we keep in the car for such emergencies.  15 seconds later it was all over and I was left with a half eaten burger clutched in  my left hand, and bucket of stomach contents in the right.  Satisfied the danger had now passed, I immediately started on the burger again.

Dave’s explosive reaction of horror and hilarity prompted me to realise how revolting my actions were.  I paused in my munching before saying, “Hmmm yeah, that was a bit Homer Simpson of me, wasn’t it?”

My mother can tell you in no uncertain terms that I was born with a will of iron, and nothing has changed to this day.  And I can tell you that one of the main things I respect about Dave is his ability to stand up to my strong personality – something only a couple of men have been able to do.  And he’s definitely the only one who has been able to diplomatically and calmly resist my determination in such as way as to quell the urge in me to step over his dead body to get whatever the heck it is I want.  BUT, ever since I’ve become pregnant, things have been very different.

All of a sudden, I don’t even have to say a word, a simple look is enough to bring him running, and I can almost always guarantee that my every wish will be granted – provided it is possible.  I call this look The Pouty-Face – bottom lip poked out further than the top one, eyes peering imploringly through lowered eyelashes.  Whilst I’m aware that abusing this power is infantile at best, I’m also aware that it is temporary, and therefor am milking it for all it’s worth.  Well, not quite, just for the important things – like asking Dave to find his blue tracksuit pants rather than his black ones so I can wear them  The black ones aren’t fuzzy enough, and today I feel like fuzzy ones.  Some examples of conversations that begin but are never finished are:

“No honey, I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to McDonalds for breakfast again….Oh!  There’s the Pouty-Face, let’s go then.”
“Oh I see the Pouty-Face! Here you can have the last of the icecream…”
“It’s 3am.  Do you really need 2/3 of a glass of orange juice with 1/3 boiling water?  Ah, Pouty-Face, alright then.”

The reason I believe my usually firm and sensible husband is willing to go against every fibre of sense in his being is because – pure and simple – he loves the baby.  He recognises the symbiotic relationship I have with the baby – I am the host, the baby is the parasite, and Dave adores his little parasite.  He knows he can’t fulfill the needs of the parasite without taking care of the host.  And  without the host, the parasite dies.  And so for my part, I realise that the moment our parasite is born, my power as the host is over.  So I’m making the the most of it while it lasts.

My ongoing concern however is for Dave.  I will have to keep a very close eye on him in future because  the first time our child learns to pull the Pouty-Face on its own, I’m sure Dave will rush out and buy it a pony.

Not only is this post incredibly lazy of me – it’s also incredibly funny.  First spotted by my brother, Paul (whose sense of humour is as sick and twisted as my own) following links from reddit.com.  I refuse to directly link the site as despite the clean yet quirky content of this page, the advertisements and comments surrounding the page were downright filthy and vulgar (not reddit.com itself, but the site this material was found on).

*Edit:  Some google searching has provided me with a relatively clean, friendly site that you can view these pics on (and they’re better quality too!) Try this:  funtasticus.com

Yesterday, Dave and I attended the funeral of a good friend’s father, a retired war veteran.  The day started poorly with me making the decision (between heaving over a bucket and trying to reply to an urgent business email) that I was probably not in a good state to go anywhere.  At the last moment – with half an hour until the funeral – I decided I could pull myself together.  And so mayhem ensued as I simultaneously rushed to the shower and realised that Dave desperately needed a shave.  I hurriedly tossed him all the appropriate equipment, then bathed at lightning speed before attempting to find my contact lenses and make-up – both long forgotten and covered in dust – and then re-learning how to apply both.

Next drama:  I had to find something decent in my wardrobe that still fit… Yikes.  My frustration grew in direct proportion to Dave’s amusement as I grabbed and discarded blouse after blouse, finding that each attempt to cover my growing bust line was thwarted by buttons that just wouldn’t meet.  Ditto with pants.  Finally I squeezed into a pair of hipsters and a stretchy top which needed a sharp tug downwards to cover what I call my “baby bloat”.  Somehow I found matching shoes and handbag and we flew out the door.

Amazingly we weren’t the last to arrive at the chapel, and we found a cosy corner in the last pew.  Almost immediately though I realised I’d made a major error when packing my handbag.  As soon as the first hymn was played my irrational pregnancy hormones kicked in and I was blubbering like a baby – and I forgot to bring tissues!  I sniffed and sniffled all through the eulogy, and and was nothing but a snot-streaming mess by the time they played The Last Post.  I emerged mascara smeared, red-eyed and suitably proud of my mourning efforts.

But the real disaster was yet to come…  We still had to attend the wake.  Hosted at my friend’s home, her father’s wake was a lavish affair.  Being high class wedding florists, they not only had contacts, but were friends with many high class function decorators and caterers.  The result was stunning.  A beautifully coordinated black and white theme with bright flowers in primary colours awaited all the mourners.  Tea, coffee, soft drinks, beer and wine overflowed from serving bars and eskies – but the food!  Well, it deserves its own paragraph.

Imagine a flavoursome feast of gourmet sandwiches, pies and pasties.  Teensy tiny pastries with delicate chocolate garnishes.  Platters upon platters festooned with dazzling delicacies, each one an individual work of art.  Bowls of giant strawberries glistened invitingly next to dishes of fresh cream.  And these strawberries were unlike anything else.  Usually at the supermarket we get two kinds of strawberries – small, sweet smelling morsels which on closer inspection are at least 75% rotten, or giant pale coloured fruits with the taste and texture of balsa wood.  But these strawberries not only looked like the kind they’ve spray painted red for a magazine shoot – they tasted so rich, sweet, and juicy I wondered if they’d managed to clone the fruits of Eden.  In short, the entire result was that you felt as though you were attending a high tea which you would happily pay $100/head for.

But alas… Lurking amongst this sumptuous spread was an inconspicuous evil.  There between mouth watering macaroons, and tantalising tartlets loitered an innocent looking bowl of cocktail weiners.  Up to this point I was happily sampling the vast array of delights to be had, and had harmlessly consumed some mini sandwichettes and pastries.  I forgot to mention – this food was sooo high class, all the portions were half bite sized, so I was finding it very easy to rationalise the number of things I’d tasted – I mean, how can something that small harm anyone?  And so it was with mindless ease that I plucked out a cocktail wiener on a toothpick and unsuspectingly took a bite from the end.  I instantly realised my error – sausages make me sick, and I’d just swallowed a sausage product.  I reasoned that it was only a little bite, and shouldn’t be so bad before giving the rest to Dave.

The next hour passed as pleasantly as it can for a funeral, but I soon began to feel a bit queasy.  Making our goodbyes we embarrassingly were the first to leave.  Upon reaching home I went to went to bed to rest.  Moaning in discomfort I fought the growing urge to regurgitate the delicious dainties I had just consumed.  Eventually it all became too much and my stomach let rip.  A symphony of colours, textures and flavours came gushing out neither looking nor tasting anywhere near as good as it had an hour ago.  Eventually I came to rest and was left feeling wrung out and exhausted.  And after the cacophony of vile tastes that had just passed over my taste buds just one remained.  You guessed it – cocktail wiener!

One of our housemates has a budgie.  A very cute, very fat, very blue and rather long in the tooth -er, beak- budgie name Marvin.  Marvin is also slightly psychotic and will stay up very late into the night chattering and chirping away to himself long after he’s been “tucked in” and his cage covered.  He further completes his delusions of being an owl – rather than a budgie – by frequently napping during the day.  One of his other adorable quirks is his outright terror of ever getting out of his cage.  If a door is held open, or when we occasionally try to encourage his liberty by removing the roof segment of his cage he will react by shaking violently and scuttling to the furthest corner, away from the “evil” freedom.

One particular morning, it was a gorgeous, warm, sunny day outside despite it being the middle of Winter.  I was watching as Marvin sat in his favourite hanging ring, nibbling away at it and chattering inanely.  Noticing my mindless rapture in watching the little fellow, Dave also stood alongside watching, his silly smile mirroring my own at the antics of the endearing little creature.  Our alexandrine parrot was enjoying the fine weather in her outside cage, and by-and-by Dave wondered aloud if Marvin might also like to be outside.

“Mind you,” he said, “Last time I put him outside, the wind blew his cage over.”

My face quickly changed to one of worried concern and I gasped, “Oh no! Did he get away!?”

Baby Brains have struck again!

As all expectant parents (and even couples who aren’t expecting) do, Dave and I have begun to discuss baby names.  At the moment, due to it’s being thoroughly appropriate, we call the baby “Chuck”.  Although I must admit during my worst moments it’s also been referred to as “The Little Bastard” (not exactly accurate), “The Parasite” (very accurate), and I must shamefacedly, and repentently admit,  ”Spawn of Satan” (I was feeling  very particularly unwell and catching sight of the stretch marks careering across my thighs and buttocks didn’t cheer me up any).

Anyway, being the thoroughly organised person that I am, I’d like to have a name picked out.  Whilst I would like my children to have slightly original names, I’d prefer to do this by picking old-fashioned, not very commonly used names, rather than the current fashion of making it up myself (I might think I’m creative, the rest of the World will probably just think I’m stupid, and what if I just called my child a very rude word in another language) or taking a regular name, and spelling it differently.  Don’t even get me started on that.  It’s not cute, it’s not clever, and your poor child will be spelling his name to everyone for the rest of his life!  Nor will I name our child after it’s place of conception.  Somehow Eight Mile Plains doesn’t sound quite right.

I’m not a hippy, and I have no aspirations to rival Hollywood celebrities in their competition for who can give their child the most ridiculous name, but there is a name that has always sounded nice to me.  I’ve always loved the girl’s name “Cherry”.  Of course, I would never, ever call my daughter Cherry.  I know only too well how the vile, crude and immature minds of teenage boys work, and no, I will never inflict the kind of comments such a name will draw on my innocent daughter.  Though I haven’t decided if it’s any worse than another unfortunate name I once had the amusement of spotting.  Looking through a childhood friend’s class photo, I happened upon the name of a girl christened “Pinky Brown” by her obviously cruel and unusual parents.  I sincerely hope high school wasn’t too traumatic for her, and she’s married to a lovely man with any last name but Brown.

Anyway, while I prefer the older names, there are some that I wouldn’t go near with a 10 foot pole.  For example:  Bertha, Beryl, Cecil, Agnes, Eugene… you get the picture.  Another problem I’m finding comes up more and more is the incompatibility of our last name with the most respectable of first names.  Some of my favourite names have been shifted to the “discard” pile after sounding them out with our last name of “Muller”.

Muller, I know, is a completely normal, and rather boring last name.  But I got quite a surprise at the number of names that sound odd, wrong, or just plain comical when placed before it.  This is partly because despite the correct pronunciation being “muller“, we live in Australia.  And as long as we are Australian, us Aussie ockers will always pronounce it “mullah”, thus rendering any name that ends with an “ah” sound ridiculous.  So automatically the name Ella is out – this I don’t mind at all.  There is a startling popularity of Ella’s as the moment, as well as Isobella’s (shortened to Bella), and I can just imaging roll-call at school in 5 or so years time:  ”Ella Marshall”, “here”, “Ella Jones”, “here”, “Ella Smith”, “here”, Ella Watkins…  But there’s other names I now cannot ever call my children.  Not only do names ending with an “ah” sound odd, but also names with a double “L” in them, and names beginning with “M” too.  Some examples:  Hannah, Milly, Deanna, Melissa, Milton, Marshall… And so it goes on.

So, what am I to do?  I’ve begun compiling a list of definite “no-goes” as well as a list of “approved” names, and this will hopefully help to narrow down some choices.  Or, we could just throw all common sense out the window do what Dave suggested.  One night as I was half-heartedly going through my lists, Dave peered over my shoulder and exclaimed, “If it’s a girl, let’s call her “Daniella Molly Hannah Muller!”

After plaguing me day and night for weeks, my “morning sickness” seems to have settled into a basic routine:  Morning time lulls me into a false sense of security.  I awaken feeling not too bad – that is, aside from the sore stomach, neck ache, and constipation.  I stagger out of bed and into what used to look like a bathroom, but now actually bears a closer resemblance to a pharmaceutical laboratory.  I gulp down my “pregnant lady” vitamins, followed by a liquid dose of vitamin C, Vitamin B complex, and an extra folic acid tablet (my chiropractor told me these three vitamins/minerals are water soluble so cannot be overdosed on, and if taken three times a day would keep sufficient levels in my system, thus allowing the leech-like embryo to suck them out of me, but still leave me enough to function.  I’ve heard many a remedy for morning sickness, and tried them all – sometimes in feverish desperation.  This one-amazingly-has worked!).

I am then able to handle a small bowl of All Bran – a basic necessity, and my morning “cuppa” of Metamucil.  Around midday, I get the “freezies” (odd sense of being cold, even if it isn’t) so it’s back to the lab for more vitamins, then it’s nap time, and I sleep for a good two-three hours before waking hot and irritable.  At about 4:00pm I start to feel quite icky, and painfully aware that my bowels have been doing whatever they want (which is usually nothing) for the past few weeks, so it’s time for a light snack, and some more Metamucil.  I then dry retch pretty much until bed time, whereupon another trip to my bathroom laboratory sees me dosed up for the long night ahead.  At 3:00am my body will find something to wake me with – whether it’s a sore tummy, aching kidney, or agonisingly full bladder, I will wake.  Eventually I will fall asleep, and the cycle begins again.

Today was no different.  4:00pm found me eating a snack of green apple slices.  At 5:00pm I was standing in the kitchen chugging a mega-jumbo sized glass of Metamucil.  I’m mid-gulp after drinking almost the whole glass of my concoction of colonic relief when Dave wanders in and casually comments,  ”Do sausages still make you feel sick, because…”

Before the word “sausages” has barely passed Dave’s lips, a projectile vomit hurtles it’s way up my oesophagus with startling speed.  My reflexes jump into action and I am able to reach the kitchen sink (which is mercifully close) just in time for the pre-digested river to burst forth.  In round-eyed astonishment we watch the sink fill with grated apple and orange flavoured Metamucil.  The torrent slows, the sink is cleaned and sterilised, and an apologetic explanation is given to our housemates for the sad demise of their dish brush, which just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

15 minutes later I’m showered, dressed in my pyjamas, and feeling marginally better.  Dave, choosing his words very carefully says,  ”I’m going to make my dinner.  I don’t think you’ll like what it is, so you best stay here for a while…”