“What are you doing?!”, I exclaimed, horror written all over my face, to which he replied:
“Eating frozen raisin toast, it’s really nice.  Do you want to try som…?”
“No!”
“But you’ll never know what it’s like.”
“Good!”

He proceeded to laugh at the disturbed expression on my face until I regained my composure and said, “There’s one other question I have.  Why did you take so long, make so much noise, and open and close several drawers for one piece of raisin toast?”
“Well I didn’t want to turn on the light and disturb Lincoln, so I fumbled about in the dark, and the bread bag tie fell off into one of the drawers which was ajar, so I looked for it.”

This is just too similar to another conversation which took place in the wee hours on the very first night of our honeymoon and ultimately the first time Dave was hissed at by a wife.  I was awakened in the middle of the night to the sound of Dave thumping and crashing his way across our suite to the bathroom.  Pretty impressive given the bathroom was no more than two metres away from the bed.  After cringing and jumping every time he kicked the bed, tripped on a suitcase, or crashed into a wall, I snapped in frustration “For Heaven’s sake would you just turn on a light!”  And you know what the ludicrous answer was?  ”I didn’t want to disturb you.”

But I best be off, I only have about one hour, nine minutes, and 37 seconds before the Lincoln clock has shown from previous experience that he will wake up screaming for another round of soothing and cuddling.  And you know what my crazy husband has just murmured?  ”The trouble with having one piece of frozen raisin bread is you really want another.”  What?

Despite being exhausted, sleep was difficult as I was away from Dave and I could hear babies crying, but I eventually drifted off.  I was woken during the night by a midwife bringing Lincoln to me for a breastfeed.  Heartbroken that I couldn’t, I mumbled “I don’t breastfeed” before falling back to sleep.  The apologetic nurse retreated and gave Lincoln some of my expressed milk.  When morning dawned and I awoke I was once again gripped by anxiety.  Feeling a desperate need to run from my life,  I bolted out the front door,  stopping as I reached the driveway.  Knowing that there was nowhere to go I sat down in the gutter and cried.  A very gentle midwife followed me out and escorted me back inside, soothing me as we walked.  The early morning is a blur to me.  I went through the motions while my emotions tumbled about inside me.  I was frightened, I was miserable, and I didn’t want my baby.

As luck (or providence) would have it, there was a Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) course beginning that day for BCPND patients and I was ushered along.  Introducing ourselves, I heard myself  say “My baby wouldn’t breastfeed and when he rejected me, I rejected him.”  Introductions over we moved on to the interesting part – learning how our thoughts control our emotions and ultimately, our actions.  When it was morning tea time I went back to the ward to check Lincoln.  He was sound asleep and absolutely gorgeous.  I held the side of his crib sobbing because I could see he was so beautiful, but I just didn’t want him.  I went back to group, eager to learn what I could.  When we broke for lunch I again returned to the ward.  This time Lincoln was in the lounge area, propped up in a baby rocker.  He looked so small, and lost, and alone that my eyes welled up as I cried for the little baby who wasn’t wanted.  He was due for a feed, and mustering up all my courage, I informed the staff that I would like to attempt breastfeeding again.  Everyone was eager to support me and I was made comfortable in a cosy chair in the nursery kitchen area.  Completely topless and surrounded by midwives and a breastfeeding consultant I was ready to face my nemesis.

My first attempt to attach Lincoln was as devastatingly fruitless as the last.  Despite holding him correctly, attaching him correctly, and in all respects having the correct method, Lincoln would not attach.  Feelings of pain and anger tore through me as I conceded defeat.  But the staff didn’t give up.  Again and again with their help I attempted to feed my baby.  Again and again Lincoln failed to attach, and then finally, 15 minutes after our first attempt, Lincoln attached!  Pure joy flooded through me as I sat, a women contented, breastfeeding my beautiful baby.  When it came time to change sides, Lincoln attached straight away and fed to his heart’s content.  As I made my way from the room that day I felt as though I was floating on air.  An important step had taken place, I had bonded with my baby.  It was a proud and relieved Dave who visited that afternoon to find his happy wife cradling a satisfied baby, both happily breastfeeding.

All was not smooth sailing from that point on though.  I was still wrestling with the fear of looking after a baby, and it became apparent that Lincoln’s feeding difficulties were not over.  For each and every feed for the next five weeks, Lincoln would take at least 15 minutes to attach.  It was only ever on the first side, once he had fed from one breast, he would happily attach and feed from the other with no complications.  Sometimes it took longer to attach, occasionally 30 minutes, on one occasion an hour, but I knew if I persevered he would eventually get it and all would be well.  It became one of my favourite things to do to make myself comfortable and enjoy 45 minutes of breastfeeding bonding.  The helping hand and support I received from the staff at BCPND along with medication to manage my anxiety and depression were the first steps to my recovery and the beginning of my new life with my family.

As we arrived I was taken through a glass door and told to put all my belongings in a locker.  I was then led to a white walled cell with glass doors where I was locked inside.  Within the room was a small glass cubicle in which two nurses were sitting while they observed me and the other patients.  I was told to sit down and wait and a doctor would see me soon.   At first I was calm, as I took in my surroundings.  There was one long couch and one L shaped couch arranged to form three sides of a rectangle.  To the left was a sink and hot water urn with a sign welcoming patients to use the free tea and coffee facilities.  The sink and cupboard below yielded neither tea nor coffee and was completely bare save for one visibly dirty mug.  To the right was a room which housed a toilet and small hand basin.  There were two other patients waiting.  One was a middle-aged woman wrapped in a sarong.  She frequently stood up and moved about the room, upsetting her sarong which would occasionally fall off exposing her breasts and underpants.  The other patient was a young man, about 16, who had the telltale signs of a cutter – multiple parallel cuts extending the length of both forearms, made more visible by the dried blood congealed on them.  After some polite small talk I learned the woman (who spoke in a far away, dazed voice) didn’t know why she was there and that she had been forcibly removed from her home.  The boy had seen a doctor and was free to leave as long as his father could collect him.  The problem was he couldn’t remember his father’s mobile or work number, and couldn’t remember the company he worked for either.

As I sat, and waited I grew more and more agitated.  I asked the nurses in the glass cubicle if I could see my husband and was told to wait to see the doctor.  I sat down again and tried to calm down but the anxiety worsened.  I tried talking with the other patients but was soon back to the glass cubicle.  Shaking and crying I asked again to see Dave and was forcibly told I couldn’t have any drugs until I saw a doctor.  I didn’t want drugs, I just wanted to see my husband.  Most of the time I spent in there is a blur but I remember lying on the toilet floor crying and screaming,  asking for Dave and being told he wasn’t there,  and at one point as I rocked back and forth crying uncontrollably the lady patient tried to give me water from the dirty mug while the boy patient wrapped me in a blanket stained with his blood.  I don’t know how long this nightmare lasted but I guessed it was at least two hours.

After what felt like an unending nightmare the door opened and I was approached by a gentle and sympathetic hospital worker who told me I was allowed to come out of the cell.  He took me to a small office with a couch inside and fetched Dave for me.  He apologised for how I was treated and told me the doctor would see me very shortly.  Soon I had the referral I needed, but still did not have $3000.  The doctor said they would find a bed for me there if I could not afford the private hospital.  I felt as though I would rather die.  In a final, last-ditch attempt we phoned some close friends.  Feeling intensely uncomfortable we explained the situation and asked if they could help us out.  Understandably, they told us they’d discuss it and phone us back.  A few minutes later Dave’s phone rang and our friends told us they’d be happy to help us with a loan and would set up an installment plan for repayment.  As Dave hung up the phone we both burst into tears of relief and joy.  The hospital liaised with the Brisbane Centre for Post Natal Disorders, lifted my “involuntary patient” status and sent us home to pack for my stay in hospital.

I didn’t know who to call, but I did know of a hospital with a psych ward, so I tried them.  When they found out I had a 7 day old infant, they referred me to 13Health as they didn’t have a maternity ward.  I was put through to a beautiful and understanding woman who asked me a lot of questions, somehow filling me with an assurance I wasn’t being judged whilst telling me it was very important to go to hospital NOW, or call an ambulance. Dave had entered the room now and found me sobbing and curled in a ball on the phone.  He was suddenly aware of how bad I was feeling and gave his immediate support and assurance that he would do whatever I needed done.  I promised the concerned lady on the phone to go to hospital before hanging up and making preparations for Lincoln to remain with my parents while Dave took me to hospital.  As I am quite good at hiding the true nature of my despair, Mum was slightly confused when I explained that I was not in a good space, and would need to go to hospital immediately, however she had no problem taking care of Lincoln for us.  Immediate needs taken care of, I packed a small bag of essentials and we headed off.  I felt an easing of my panic knowing I was on the way to getting the help we needed as I headed to a large hospital with a maternity ward.

Once arriving they also were very understanding and I was taken through to a treatment room immediately.  Poor Dave fought back tears and sleep as distraught and exhausted he stayed by my side offering whatever support he could.  Another problem however soon became apparent.  Having not expressing any breast milk for some hours, my breasts were engorged and painful.  Despite being in a maternity hospital it took an age for someone to find a breast pump.  And then I quickly discovered it didn’t work.  Somehow sitting in an emergency room trying to hand express into a vomit bag wasn’t what I had in mind as a new mother.

Eventually I convinced Dave to go home for some much needed sleep as I tried to hold myself together for his sake.  By this time it was the small hours of the morning.  Soon a nurse arrived who was assigned to keep a surveillance on me.  I begged for another breast pump, but was bought the same broken one.  Between us the nurse and I managed to find a way to hold it so it worked.  Once I was more comfortable the panic began to set in again.  I was shaking as I rocked back and forth sobbing.  I was quickly given a little yellow pill and soon calmed down before falling into black, dreamless sleep.

I awoke to a beautiful, sunny day and a very pleasant student nurse who was watching guard over me.  As chilling waves of fear and anxiety washed over me she offered me some magazines.  Welcoming any distraction I pretended to look through them while my innards tumbled about inside me.  I spoke to my mother on the phone.  She told me Lincoln had slept for 6 hours straight overnight.  I didn’t care.  I asked her not to talk about him.   I began to panic that something had happened to Dave and when he  arrived the relief that rushed through my was overpowering.

Soon, a very nice doctor came to talk to me.  He asked if I had private health cover as I may be able to go to a special hospital for women experiencing post natal depression.  For the first time I felt a ray of hope.  My joy was soon quashed when the doctor came back and informed us that while my private health did cover hospitals, it didn’t cover psychiatric hospitals and that we would need to come up with $3000 if I was to go there.  We did not have $3000.  Neither did any of our family.  But first I needed a doctors referral and for that I had to be transferred to the psych hospital I originally phoned in the first place.  There were things said about voluntary patient and involuntary patient but it all meant nothing to me.  I was just glad to be headed to more help as they took me in a taxi to the next hospital.  Dave followed in his car.

I think we all knew that I was at high risk of developing postnatal depression (PND) but I had hoped that I would somehow miraculously escape.  I had become a bit concerned when during ante-natal classes we were given an information pamphlet and I ticked most of the high risk boxes, but still I was optimistic.  I became even more relaxed after Lincoln’s birth when I felt amazingly well.  I was in high spirits, and despite feeling quite detached from him during pregnancy, I was liking the little fella.  He was red and scrawny with an overly large head.  His eyes were puffy from spending nine months growing in fluid, his little arms were comically long and gangly and his legs were folded up like a battery hen just released from its cage.  All in all, he looked like a miniature ET with hair.  But I liked him.

The problems seemed to settle in when it became too painful to continue breast feeding him.  After formula upset his tummy, I made the decision to express breast milk for a couple of days to allow my nipples to recuperate before trying again.  And for a few days this worked.  Once I got home I settled into a state of constant low level anxiety.  I shifted furniture, sterilized, dusted, and cleaned, then spent an entire day stuck to the couch in constant pain from my stitches and birth injuries.  Thankfully my mother in law was visiting, and loved looking after Lincoln.  By the next day, Lincoln was six days old and I was really starting to feel a sense of growing fear.  Of what, I don’t know, I was just feeling afraid.   I swallowed it down and decided I was ready to reintroduce Lincoln to breast feeding.  Lincoln had other ideas.  Used to the constant and easy flow of feeding from a bottle, he pulled his knees up, struck me with his tiny little fists, screwed his face up and bellowed as he fought against me with all his might.  I’m not sure what happened exactly, but at his display of rejection, something shut down in me, and I physically and emotionally pushed him away.  I couldn’t bear to look at him and handed him to Dave for a bottle feed.  Logically I knew he didn’t know what he was doing.  I knew it wasn’t personal.  But I just couldn’t change how I felt.

My mind was in a constant whirl.  I tried praying for peace, deep breathing, having a cuppa, nothing would ease the fear and anxiety pounding through my brain.  I jumped at any excuse to leave the house, and Lincoln in Dave’s care.  I told myself over and over that he was not rejecting me.  I knew I was doing the best thing by expressing breast milk for him.  There was nothing wrong with him not breast feeding.  I even tried to tell myself that I was lucky to have a baby that would accept a bottle.  But every time I saw him feeding from a bottle I felt an overwhelming resentment that my baby would bond with a piece of plastic, but refused me.  It just seemed ludicrous.  I had milk – plenty.  And he was hungry.  Why couldn’t he just breastfeed?  In hindsight I can see this was just a surface issue, and the problems lay much deeper, but the physical culmination of all of my emotions were focused on his refusal to feed.  The hardest thing of all was the complete inability to stop the jittering nerves that wracked my mind and emotions.  Suddenly a cold chill of terror ran down my spine and into the pit of my stomach as I thought “I don’t want a baby” and once I acknowleged the thought, it continued rolling about relentlessly in my mind  The overwhelming fear grew worse until I was having regular panic attacks.  I was looking up breast feeding consultants, calling the Nursing Mothers Association, and all the friends I could think of to try and relax and regain the control I was quickly losing.  I called the psychologist I’d been seeing during my pregnancy, but still felt that I was fast falling into hysteria.   I felt a deep sadness engulf me like a smothering blanket.  I made up my mind to see my doctor the next day and beg to go back onto anti-depressants, and crawled into bed.

I lay in the darkness, my husband thinking I was asleep, as damaged ideas scrambled my mind.  I didn’t want my baby.  I didn’t know what to do.  I couldn’t just put him on the street.  There was no escape.  I had no intention of hurting him, I just wanted him to not exist.  And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.  I knew Dave would never agree to give him up, so I concluded that to escape from Lincoln, I would lose my marriage and the most important person in the world to me.  I didn’t know what to do.  I needed to run.  I had nowhere to run to.  Despite my plans to find help the next day I rapidly dropped to extreme low of wanting to take my life in order to stop the pain and fear inside.  Dave thought I was asleep, and so left me to rest as I lay in bed willing my life to end.  Thoughts of how to end it all crowded my thoughts along with the anguish of the pain it would cause Dave.  I  couldn’t physically act to hurt him, so I lay in the darkness of my mind, deciding instead to just not eat, and not drink, and not move until I just stopped breathing.  Suddenly something snapped, I knew I needed help, I needed it now, and I had to make one last ditch attempt to get it. I didn’t want to hurt Dave and I wanted to love Lincoln.  I got out of bed and picked up the phone.

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.

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?”

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!

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.

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.