camera roll: January

January really does feel like the longest month of the year. At 31 days it's not any longer than a bunch of other months but wow, it really encompasses a LOT.

31 days ago we were on holiday, nursing our hangovers with a long walk beside the ocean, a soft-serve, a swarm of bees and later, fortifying red wine as the first full moon of the year bathed our optimistic new year selves in warm golden light.

Then home, to the reality of the drought - hitting hard - and a dawn patrol of police helicopters, looking for an elderly man who went missing in his canoe. His body was found later that morning poor chap - a suspected seizure while out on the water. Not a bad way to go really. I got a text from my Mum saying 'Hang on to those unseaworthy craft of yours. Dad and I will take a spin in a few years time.'

The only part of our garden I care about keeping alive - my succulent babies doing well on rations of dishwater and leftover dribbles out of the family's water bottles ...

Good eating in January. The glut of fruit and fresh abundance, and the time to prepare and serve pretty, healthy things. All the indulgences of the holiday eating magically remedied (or so we tell ourselves!) in lots of fruit and salads.

Not such a great month for Nacho ... lil' pup finally got spayed after I won the furious puppies v no puppies debate. She was down and out for a couple of days but bounced back remarkably and was soon back to her mischievous self.

On the subject of babies, and mischef ... early beach mornings with my delicious nephew while my SIL and my eldest daughter played at surfing.

Even after Husband and I were back at work we successfully kept the holiday vibe alive (and cheered Nacho up no end) by procuring a second-hand sofa for the stoep. Perfect for lazing and dreaming and pretending we still have endless days for such ...

Goddamn that light is ugly...

There was even a teeny-weeny bit of rain!

And I discovered that the sound of water running into our storage tank actually brought a lump to my throat.

It doesn't take much to bring a lump to my throat lately.

My last pic of January 2018. Little old lady cat in the afternoon sun. Deaf as a doorpost, as cranky as always, only happy when she's lying tight up against me at night. Still my sweetest first baby.

31 days later the full moon rose again, but this time we weren't watching is ascend all chilled and wine'd up with buddies. This time we were chasing deadlines, and children to bed before school. A brief glance out the window, roused in the night by a glare to the eyeballs.

Same moon, same month, feels like a long, long few weeks in between.

And now, as experience shows, the year starts galloping along. Shew this crazy life.

how puppies are like babies, and also not

It's going to be puppy-heavy around here for a while. I mean, why wouldn't it be?

How puppies are just like babies:
~ they cry for no reason, have no control over their bodies, can't sleep through the night, get crayzeeee when they're hungry
and also not ...
~ you can ignore their crying (well I can, for a bit), they don't wear nappies (why? why not?), you don't need to nurse them at 3am, the hunger thing is just the same.

But they are in that ...
~ you can swaddle them (and it really works, especially at 3am!), if you don't shower during their morning nap you're screwed, you forget from one puppy to the next how much work they are ...
but also not because ..
~ you can put them in the bathtub to scrabble around while you shower, and then hose it down afterwards (puppy and bath), related: you don't have to sterilise everything they touch ...

They're just the same in that you can put them to sleep anywhere ...

... but mainly they're the same in that when you spend time with them you remember what a privilege it is to spend time with a young creature.

Puppies, like babies, don't come along all that often, and despite the work involved it's very special to watch a small thing grow.

Thank god puppies grow faster than babies though!

PUPPY!!

Look what the Easter Bunny brought us ...

Orca. 5 weeks old.

'Cos every little girl deserves a puppy right?

With sharp, sharp little puppy teef.

And if you're going to get another one they may as well match!

WARNING: BIRTH STORY! TMI! FOR SERIOUS!

[You know who you are: read at own risk.] 

It was nearly a year ago I got home from waddling round the mall to find my brother playing ball with Frieda in the front yard. I jokingly looked at my (non-existent) watch and told him to stand by for my water's breaking at 5pm.
Ha ha ha.

They did.

At 5pm my water's broke as I was frying sausages for Frieda's supper. I called my husband, on his way to get a haircut. He asked if he had time to get it done anyway, this being our second child of course I said yes.
I called my Mum to come and collect Frieda. Standing there leaking, sausages burning, I looked over to see Frieda standing in a puddle.
'I had a wee Mum.'
This should've been my first clue that I was soon to learn the real meaning of 'multi-tasking'.

By the time my Mum and husband got home I was contracting, seriously enough to be unable to talk while in the middle of one, grinning inanely and trying to pretend everything was dead normal for Frieda's sake.
We kissed and hugged our first baby goodbye, brimful with the knowledge she was completely unaware of, next time we saw her there would be two.

To hospital, contractions close and getting stronger, this much I remembered from last time.

But again, once we got there, the disappointing news that I'd not dilated at all. However this time we knew we wanted to stick it out, and we did.
The next few hours were ... interesting. If I can say that the most uncomfortable experience of my life was also one of the most precious to share with my husband, that I've never been in such pain, but also laughed as much, that I've never been so scared while simultaneously so excited, then I'd be telling a true story, but a weird one.
We worked in 15 minute increments to pass the time until my next examination at 11.30 pm. 15 minutes in the bath, 15 walking, 15 on the labour ball. During contractions I needed to be held, inbetween I wanted to be left the fuck alone. My husband was amazing.
Oy those contractions. The scariest thing about them was the inevitability. With period pains or stomach cramps one sometimes feels one starting, only for it to taper off or not be as bad as you expected. With labour pains the first twinge means it's a-coming, and it's going to be as bad as you anticipate, if not worse.
A rubber mallet swung at full force into your spine while a knife blade is plunged and twisted into your stomach. There's no position you can find to alleviate them, nothing to do but breathe. Breathe and try to find a calm place within the onslaught, relax your shoulders, breathe into the pain. Truer words were never spoken.
And then it stops, and you're totally ok. Like have a chat, have a wine gum, make a joke ok. Crazy shit man.

11.30 pm check up. Nothing happening.
Nothing where it should be that is, plenty was happening outside let me tell you. By now I was losing my sense of humour, spitting wine gums across the room, cursing, whimpering, caught in this thing over which I had no control, no way but forward, no way of knowing what the time-line looked like, the only certainty being we were nowhere near the end.
12.30 am. Nothing happening.
Oh except the vomiting. And the exhaustion. 'Til now I'd been trying new positions for each contraction, trying to stay active in the moment. My husband, my dearest, my light, showing limitless creativity in his suggestions of how we tackle the next one. But now I was done. I couldn't get up, I couldn't spend one more minute on that fucking labour ball, I didn't want a chair, I didn't want a bath, I just. wanted. it. to. stop.
Or start for that matter. Let's move on, let's transition, let's have a frikkin' baby already!

That's when I heard the magic word: epidural. Hallelujah praise baby jesus yes fucking please.

Peace.

A weird peace. I feel nothing but I'm cold. A distant tremor like a train passing far away, a look on the monitor reveals a massive contraction, my toes tingle.
Husband dozes in a chair, I feel ill, disembodied and, inevitably, guilty. I can see from the baby monitor that my girl is in there, now working alone. She's riding those waves while I watch from the shore.
The nurse comes in and puts another blanket over me. 'Try get some rest,' she says, 'we'll check again at 3. Try get some rest my dear.'

I think I must've dozed off for I wake with a start. And a panic. My legs, totally immobile, are flopped together, I need to move. I need to move my legs. I need to move my legs!
Panic rising in my throat, I put all my energy into keeping my voice steady, calling for my husband. Poor guy wakes, totally disorientated, and by the time he gets over to me to adjust my position the nurse has arrived too.
She examines me and grins. 9 cm dilated! Game on! My heart surges anew with adrenalin and enthusiasm. I'm transitioning, my body's caught up, we're going to have this baby!

But then, an ominous beeping from the monitor - she's in distress.. The nurse calls my doctor. It's 4 am. The four of us, him on the other end of the phone line, wait and watch the monitor. Her heartbeat dips again. Doc says he's coming in and through a haze of emotional overload I realise he's asked the nurse to call in the standby theatre team.
He's there in minutes, examines me himself, checks the monitor readings, gives us the news.
I'm well dilated.
But she's not engaged.
And she's not happy.
And as I've had a c-section before, he thinks it's time to call it quits.
Though I'm sure he didn't actually use that word.

5 am by the time we got up to theatre. The hospital was still and quiet. My long-haired anesthetist joked that he thought he'd sorted us out hours before with the epidural. Then he noted, just for interest sake, that my heart seemed to miss every 4th beat. Funny guy. Not.
But they were a nice team, put us at ease and, as is always the case with c-sections, it felt like mere minutes after being wheeled in that they were passing me a funny, creamy, oh so warm little thing with one wild rolling eye-ball and a deeply suspicious expression.
Apparently I turned to my husband and said, 'Aw let's have another one.'

Nearly 11 months later I most definitely do not want to have another one, but I can still recall the feeling of each moment of that wild, wild night. The pain, the fear, the excitement and of course, the joy.

And now I've finally gotten it written down for prosperity. Sorry y'all!

there's something in the way she ...

~ lies on my chest, belly down, still-bent legs folded in under her, nappy bum in the air, already pushing herself up on her forearms to crane her neck and glance blindly around, looking for all the world like a lost tortoise ...

~ then shuffles up until her breath snuffles warmly, but so faintly, in the hollow of my neck, her tiny lips reaching out to taste my skin ...

~ yawns, putting her whole body, fingers to toes, into it, her biggest conscious movement

~ gawps around with her mouth open like a baby bird when she's hungry

~ performs bodily functions audible from the next room, who knew such a small body could expel with such force?

~ recognises my movements as I unlatch my bra to feed her and gets an anticipatory leer on her face, uncannily like a dirty old man at a peepshow

~ looks uncannily like a little old man, she's shown resemblances to Jack Nicholson, Anthony Hopkins, Dennis Quaid (may I call him old?) and various British politicians

~ is already louder, chubbier, more assertive and alert than she was at birth, a scant 9 days ago

~ sleeps like a little pink log, still and solid, the occasional whimper, a very rare twitch of the fingers

Conclusion: everyone should have a second child.
To be able to love and learn and observe without all the angst of a first-time parent, without the uncertainty and guilt and tears and drama.
I'm seasoned enough to know this is the 'honeymoon phase', these first few newbie weeks, but I'm enjoying it enough to relish every minute and come what may, she's done the work to ensure we're smitten enough to love her through it.

twinkle twinkle little ...

Stella.

She's here!

Born Thurs 11 March at 05h03.
3.8kg (that's about 8 pounds 7 ounces or so I'm told ...) and hungry!

Alas we didn't manage to VBAC but all in her birth was a wonderful experience. Now we're settling in, some of us more easily than others, and I've probably got blog material enough for many months but simply no time to write ...

grandma's hands*

*One of my favourite songs, especially the live version - Grandma's Hands by Bill Withers - beautiful lyrics.

But actually this isn't about my Granny's hands, it's about her feet. And how they've miraculously appeared at the end of my legs.
In my previous pregnancy I don't remember suffering from swollen feet and ankles at all. But then it was mid-winter by the time I got to this stage, Frieda was a smaller baby and actually, as she was 3 weeks early, I've now been pregnant for longer than I was with her.

This time round, in the stinking baking heat of February, I'm starting to think I may have elephantitis. For serious.
Thank the lord I took off my toe rings months ago, they'd've needed cutting off my tootsies by now!

I look down at my feet and I remember my Granny Molly.
She was a large lady, tall and as she got older, increasingly heavy. She had legs and ankles like sausages, encased in her tights, her feet bulging out the tops of her old lady shoes.
She died when I was 18 (in fact, she died on my 19th birthday but that's another story), so most of my memories of her are from childhood. She would sit ensconced in a comfy chair, either in her book-fat study or on the patio, and us grandkids would pull up on of the many footstools (not the one bearing her gin & tonic) or poofs which were always scattered around her house and listen to her stories of Cape Town when she was a girl. She was a wonderful story-teller. And sitting listening to her provided ample opportunity to study those fascinating feet.
Granny Molly started losing her eyesight in her last few years. When arriving at her house we had to identify ourselves to her, 'Hello Granny, it's Molly Jean' (my father's family always use my second name too, to avoid confusion, a habit most of them have kept up even though my Gran's been gone for 15 odd years. I kind of like it that they do.). She became unable to do things like care for her feet herself, and I always found it incredibly touching that my Grandfather would cut and paint her toenails for her.

She also became less and less concerned with social niceties, another trait I had much admiration for. As she got bigger, she'd sometimes sit with her legs splayed, her chubby feet flopped on the floor like two hams. Occasionally one (especially a little one, seated on one of those poofs) could see too far up her skirt - an area always demurely concealed in tights and beige underwear - but my Grandfather would reprimand her: 'Close your legs Molly!' and she'd respond, 'Oh John, they're only family.'
The exchange became a bit of a family joke.

But I do her a disservice to only talk about her last few years. She was an incredible woman. She'd have been an architect had she lived in another time, she designed many houses for her family and others, and was an invaluable resource to my Grandfather's building business, albeit an officially unacknowledged one.
She hosted the most outrageous parties, always involving some kind of entertainment - a play that she'd written or a concert of songs - all of which her guests were expected to participate in.
On arrival they'd be presented with a stiff drink and the part of the programme they were responsible for and shown to the guest bedrooms where basic costumes were laid out. Each part written and costumed specifically with that person in mind. Many drinks later the entertainment would begin, and would be talked and laughed about for months afterwards.
Family Christmas's were similarly curated, for many years a full Nativity play was presented, adults and children participating, hosts of cousins meant always having enough shepards and angels. And as the family grew, for years there was always a new baby to play Jesus.
Father Christmas always made an appearance, often dramatically descending from the roof or down a tree, one year even arriving in a helicopter (a wonderful machine constructed, by my Gran, from cardboard and filled with gifts, rolled out from behind some bushes with accompanying helicopter backing track piped over the stereo).
If it all sounds fantastical and totally OTT that's because it was. She was that kind of lady.

I've always been very proud to have her name, and these days as I sit with my legs inelegantly splayed round my big tummy, looking down at my swollen porkie feet, I'm reminded of her and happy to find this bit of family nostalgia in what would otherwise just be a gross and uncomfortable state of being.
And pleased to be remembering the wonderful woman she was as I prepare to raise another girl, another woman with a bit of Granny Molly in her.

the skinny

Not me! Wha ha ha ha ha.

No, no baby yet. But 3 getaways in 3 weeks, lots, lots less internet/computer time than usual and some rather persuasive distraction has left this blog a little thin. At least one of us is.

As much as I've been swayed that way recently, and will no doubt even more so in the coming months, my intention's never been to be a mommy-blogger, or a diary blogger, and truthfully all my bloggable thoughts and experiences lately are about this baby, my days preparing for her, or just about the serene and rather bovinely tranquil place I've reached in my head in anticipation of her arrival.

I could blog about how I'm 1.08cm in diameter, how I'm rapidly running out of semi-decent things to wear (thank fk for the Yummy Mummy Tummy), how I think I'm in labour at least once a day.
I could get grusomely graphic about the emergency kit (2 maternity pads, a black bag - to protect my car seat - and a sarong) I've been carrying around in case my waters break in public. Or how I've started leaking a bit of breastmilk occasionally - I warned you - or how many grusomely graphic natural birth accounts I've been reading online.
I could witter on about doing piles of tiny small laundry. And then finding my cats asleep in the baskets of neatly folded clothes and having to wash them all again.
I could confess how packing this little outfit into my hospital bag - yup, it's ready at the door - made me get a little teary ...

[imagine if you will a picture here of a very cute little white, pink & grey outfit - stupid bloggrrrrr won't let me upload images]

Or how the other evening I had a moment of 'Um, no, don't feel like doing this anymore ... could I change my mind?'
How some crazy evenings with Frieda going full tilt and the cats yowling for their supper and the dog hot-lapping round the house I'm filled with icy terror at the thought of introducing a newborn into the mix.
How just today I succumbed to removing my wedding ring from my swollen finger.


But actually all I can say is I've reached this remarkably calm and reflective headspace. I didn't get a chance to experience this with Frieda's pregnancy, maybe its impossible the first time round anyway, but I really feel like I've reached some zen plateau (maybe it's the eye of the storm), and it's making me be quiet and move slow and feel ... ready.

Long may it last.

bac to the v

Warning: birth story ahead.

On the 19 June 2007 I was 37 weeks pregnant with Frieda. I had a scheduled scan with my Obs/Gyn who declared all well and that I was on target for delivery in 3 or so weeks time.

That evening I went to my ante-natal yoga class, led by a wonderfully flaky but warm and, turns out, intuitive woman. I walked into the room and she asked me whether I was in labour. I was astounded. 'No', I said. 'Hmmm,' she declared, 'you look ... ripe'.

I went home, slept as well as a 37 week pregnant woman sleeps and awoke the next day with tons of energy, determined to finish all my last-minute baby preparation errands and then collapse into my confinement (wonderful term) and do nothing but chill and read for the last few weeks.

I missioned all day, had lunch with my husband, made plans to go out to dinner with friends, and finally got home at 6pm just in time to put my feet up for a while before going out.

That's when my waters broke.

And how. Thank fuck that didn't happen while I was still in the mall!

Almost instantly I started feeling contractions, by the time husband got home (with the take-away curry I'd requested - we had a long night ahead, I thought I should get my strength up) I was running on adrenalin, excited, ready to go! go! go!

Alas, this was not to be.

After examining me in hospital my doctor was pretty glum - baby wasn't in position, I'd lost most of my amniotic fluid, waiting for her to turn could take a very long time, she might go into distress, I'd have to be closely monitored, probably wouldn't be very mobile during labour - she didn't push us to chose a c-section, but she didn't really make us feel as if the alternative would be greatly supported, or at all pleasant (inasmuch as it ever would be!).
She left us alone to think about it and I just sagged. It all seemed such a let down after the initial adrenalin surge, I was getting really uncomfortable, with painful contractions 2 minutes apart and the knowledge that this could continue for '8-10 hours' before I even started active labour. My incredibly full and busy day was taking its toll on my energy and we both felt we didn't want to do anything to compromise our daughter's safety.
We decided to caeser.

Things happened really fast from there and Frieda was born at 11.40pm, 20 June 2007.

While never regretting our decision as such, I've more and more over the last couple of years wondered how necessary a c-section really was. Turns out the hospital I was at has a reputation for doing mainly c-sections, I've heard rumours about my then Obs/Gyn and her business partner being very pro-caesereans, she doesn't work with midwifes ...

So this time I'm trying something a little different. I'm hoping to VBAC. That's Vaginal Birth After Caeserean. Or as a (male) friend declared: Bac to the V.

I've switched doctors to a guy who's very pro-natural and supportive of attempting to VBAC (under all the right circumstances of course), I've moved to a hospital whose maternity staff are apparently better motivated to deliver babies naturally, but most importantly I'm keeping an open mind, informing myself of the risks and rewards and trying to find my zen place for this birth.

Which, as it turns out, may happen sooner than we thought. A scan today, at 35 weeks, reveals that my baby is the same size as Frieda was at birth. She's turned, she's dropped, she's facing left.
According to my doctor, we're to 'be ready'.

Yikes.

it could've been serious, but at least there was great food

4 Jan 2005, my Mum and I spent most of the day at Heathrow Airport waiting for our flight home that evening.
Unbeknown to me, one of my oldest and dearest friends spent the day in hospital, trying to stave off and eventually reconciling herself to, the very premature birth of her son.
He was 1.4kg at birth and spent 4 weeks in hospital before going home.

On Monday Frieda and I went to Matthew's 5th birthday party, a gorgeous young lad, jumping in and out of the swimming pool and wildly playing his birthday drum kit (is his mother mad?).

My friend and I have often shared a wry grin over the last few months that her due date with Matthew was early March, the same as mine is with this baby, and on Monday I nearly pushed the joke too far, and seemed to displease the birth gods.
With the kids being dinosaurs in the pool, I turned to my friend and jokingly said well, I've made it through the 4th!

An hour later I discovered I was having a bleed, 3 hours later I was in hospital hooked up to a heart-rate monitor and cursing my wise-ass mouth.

All is currently as it should be, I spent the last 2 nights under observation, had a big scan and my little girl's doing great, weighing a very healthy 1.8kg, placenta's fine, bleeding's all but stopped.

I managed to spend the hottest day of the summer so far in an air-conditioned hospital room while the rest of Cape Town sweltered and stewed, being served great food by a very sweet lady-guy called Ingrid, reading the last book in the Millennium Trilogy and being completely spoilt with a peri-peri 'katkop' (cat head - slang for that indulgent carb-laden deliciousness of hot chips on a fresh white roll, slathered in peri-peri sauce), courtesy of my Muslim room-mate's husband.

Now home and nothing to do but take it easy, keep tabs on myself and incubate, incubate, incubate ... and keep fingers (and legs!) crossed that we make it to term, this bouncy little self-starter and I.

You just never know what's coming down that road ahead, and you never know who's listening as you jest with the gods.

mum

A few weeks ago my dearest girlfriends arranged a unisex baby-shower picnic for us in one of our favourite places.
It was a Sunday morning and sweltering hot. Luckily the Gardens have ample shade and so we set off loaded up with picnics and blankets and champers and the biggest lemon meringue pie I've ever seen, in search of the Ultimate Spot in which to spend the afternoon.

Frieda had been a bit snotty when she woke up but seemed happy and bright enough. Once there she trailed behind me, assuring me she was fine, but just as we plodded up the last hill she suddenly said, in a tiny voice, 'I'm finished Mum' and when I looked down at her, she'd turned an ashen grey. Like grey, a colour I'd never seen on my child before.
I dropped everything and picked her up, carrying her to the closest bit of deep shade. And there as I cradled her, she swooned, going limp in my arms for just the shortest of seconds before opening her eyes again and looking up at me with a brave little smile. I got a big fright but managed to keep my voice steady and calm, mopping her forehead with a damp cloth and reassuring her that she'd be fine.
She recovered quite quickly, I think she must have had a touch of heat stroke, but wasn't interested in sitting anywhere other than On Mum for a good half hour, despite the arrival of many of her friends, and I was perfectly happy to hold on to my baby, feeling a rush of tenderness and love, and a re-awareness of her fragility, despite the big girl she seems to be these days.

On an afternoon which was was all about our New Girl (who was fabulously spoilt with some beautiful things), I was ironically more acutely focused than ever on my current and only baby. And thereby reminded and affirmed of what it means to be Mum, the person who can right the world with a soft touch and a comforting word, a lap (albeit getting more crowded everyday) to seek refuge on, a warm embrace which can ease most discomfort.
Maybe that was the most valuable gift I was given that day, confirmation of my Mum-ness. Welcome affirmation in the last few months before I have to learn to expand that embrace, to be that person to more than one.
I'm finding that thought less scary these days, I'm starting to get excited.

pale & wan

Not normally words I'd associate with myself, but two words which have rung very true the last few days. I had a 24h stomach bug on Monday (oh the irony of a vomit-free 1st trimester and then that), all time record low blood pressure on Tuesday and just haven't seemed to right myself since then.

The Docs aren't concerned, low blood pressure doesn't pose nearly the same kind of risks to pregnancy as high, they're all just telling me to lie down, feet up, take it easy and ride it out.

Humph.

Nevermind that it's Christmas in one week and I've not:

• posted a bunch of handmade Christmas cards (which'll never make it to Europe in time now)
• completed my Christmas shopping
• made any headway on decorations and I think Frieda will divorce us if we don't have a tree this year
• done any seasonal appropriate grocery shopping or
• baked or made one yummy Christmas themed edible yet.

Nevermind that this was supposed to be the last week of work and I've hardly managed to do a thing.
Nevermind that our builders packed up and left for holidays on Tuesday with the job not 100% completed but leaving us with a gorgeous new kitchen, bathroom, patio dying to be scrubbed and moved into and played in and I'm unable to do any of that.
Nevermind that I'm in possession of a 2.5 yr old. Say. No. More.
Nevermind that 'tis the season to be merry and all that and I've had to turn down innumerable social invitations to have fun and see old friends and go to the beach and generally be frikkin merry 'n all.

No, nevermind all that, for this isn't just about me see. This is one of those moments where one becomes acutely aware of being the conduit, the vehicle, the womb.
There's a little girlie inside of me, thumping away like she has all the energy in the world I might add, and she's calling the shots. And I must take heed and lie down.

If only it was as easy as it evidently is for that ginger kitty. Clearly her Christmas shopping's all done.

PS Yes I know that window's in a terrible state of disrepair, that's clearly not the recently renovated side of the house!
PPS Can you see the wee madam in question clad in turquoise stripes reflected in the window? I only noticed her after I posted the pic.

while you're down there ...

For various reasons (which I may get into in a future post), I've changed obstetricians for this pregnancy. This time I'm seeing a male doctor. A young male doctor. The kind of guy 'I might meet socially' according to the friend who recommended him. Some recommendation for a gynecologist indeed ...

The first time I went to see him was when I was 12 weeks pregnant. Husband came along for that first glimpse at our new baby. But he was a little nervous about being in the room when a strange man examined his wife (not, please note, nervous of a strange man examining his wife, he just wasn't particularly keen to witness it all. Interesting ...).
I assured him that a) I wasn't too wildly enthusiastic about the prospect either but that b) at a 12 week exam there shouldn't be any reason to 'pop the hood' so to speak, or for anyone to make use of that delightful piece of equipment a friend of mine refers to as the 'vag wand'. A 12 week exam should be purely external, a trip to the dentist more invasive, all we could possibly find to be embarrassed about would be that he'll know that we've definitely had sex, at least once (ok, twice), and that there'll be large amounts of KY jelly in use.
Gnh gnh.

So we get there, we meet the guy, he seems personable enough. Professional but not clinical. He uses the word 'boobs' which kinda weirds me out and makes me more comfortable all at the same time.
We chat about Frieda and the last 12 weeks and our expectations of the birth etc. He asks me some basic health questions and then invites us next door for blood pressure test etc.
I sit on the unnaturally high examining table, Husband leans nonchalantly against a cabinet in the background.
I'm wearing a skirt. Husband is wearing pants. Just to be clear, so is the doctor.

Blood pressure - fine. Urine sample - fine. And just when I'm thinking we're done and will be moving on to the main attraction, the scan, the doctor does the most unnerving thing.

He drops to his knees in front of me.

Husband and my eyes fly to each other in silent screams of terror. Surely, surely, he's not just going to dive on in under there?
The doctor reaches out a hand, Husband is poised and ready to flee at the first glimpse of my undergarments, when quickly the doc squeezes one of my ankles and then the other. 'No sign of water retention there. Shall we move on to the scan?'

Which we did. And she was beautiful.

I know it's extremely unlikely that I'll get through this entire pregnancy and birth without Dr Not-Dreamy getting a eyeful of my lady parts, but I'd kinda like to be prepared when that happens. Or at least in the throes of labour and therefore, utterly uncaring.

and so it seems ...

... I am to be the mother of daughters, parent to sisters.

I don't have sisters. Most of my closest girlfriends don't have sisters. I've never been a girly-girl. I don't especially like pink. I'm not big on sibling rivalry. I abhor Barbie.
And while I was never one for dreaming about my future children and planning how many I'd have and what their names would be etc, I always kinda assumed I'd have a son. I really did.

But very possibly I won't, and that's taking some getting my head round. It's not a tragedy by any means, I'm not wailing and gnashing my teeth and taking to my bed with disappointment (although some do I've been told, in fact just yesterday I met a woman whose sister-in-law was about to pop number 6 in her desperate quest to have a daughter - 5 boys and finally she was expecting her girl. Can you imagine that lady's angst, and the extreme likelihood of that long-awaited little girl growing up to be a bull dyke, 'cos why wouldn't the universe work like that?), but I'm taking a while for the news to sink in, I'm reconfiguring my mental picture of our family, I'm pondering raising sisters, girls, women.

And I'm finding there's a lot to be excited about in that. Imagine a girl child who is not Frieda - what a mind bend. Naturally a boy would've been different to her, but another girl, anatomically the same but a whole new personality? That's almost more challenging, and certainly quite exciting.

And while I've not had a sister, I almost did. My Mum lost a girl baby just after she was born, 2 years after me. Had she lived that would definitely have had an impact on the person I've become and I'm now being given the opportunity to experience sisterhood, albeit from a different perspective.

I've spent my life surrounded by incredible women, from my grandmothers, mother and aunts, to my parent's friends, to my own wonderful girl friends, a collection of fine, strong, formidable ladies, and I think I'm excited about spending the rest of my life with two more.

is becoming a reality ...

California Dreamin'. That's how that line's supposed to start, but as that part bears (bares?) absolutely no relevance to my life I'll not include it.

No indeed, what is becoming a reality is this child growing inside me. 20+ weeks, kicking like a donkey (albeit a little one) and just suddenly my brain is starting to ask; where will it sleep? what will it wear? And also, what the hell is it?
So far it's remained elusive, coyly crossing it's legs and refusing to reveal it's true self. In other words defying me already.
It's not that I must know or anything, it's just that I MUST KNOW. And no, it's not a question of pink or blue, it's a question of getting used to the format of our family, of preparing Frieda for her little brother, or sister. Of ordering that Meccano set online for husband if indeed it is another girl (an excuse to buy Meccano seems to be the only real reason why he'd care either way).

And so the urge to start digging out baby clothes and launder them, to start stockpiling nappies and rearrange furniture is growing. But I suffer no dillusions about why I'm feeling this way.

It's all due that other reality. The one in which a crew of men descend on our house at 7am on Monday morning to rip our kitchen and bathroom to pieces. The one in which we need to create a temporary kitchen in our lounge room, clear the cobwebs from the never-used 2nd shower (and make sure it actually has water!), pack up our existing kitchen, make a plan about the dog, order new floor tiles, find a bath we can both agree on without any shouting, find a temporary home for the gazillion powertools, boxes of books, camping gear, furniture etc currently stuffed into the small 'storeroom' which will soon become (can it be?) our Dining Room ... all before 7am on Monday morning.
Makes California sound quite attractive really.

So ja, those baby clothes will have to stay packed away. And this baby, he or she, can carry on kicking back (ha ha ha) and growing, and I'll apply my logistical mind to the more immediate conundrums we face.

Oi vey.

crumbs

When someone once asked me what our strategy was with regards to conceiving a second child I, not very politely or tactfully, joked that we'd decided that on Frieda's 2nd birthday, when we'd waved goodbye to the last guests and gotten the birthday girl to bed, we'd drop and conceive the 'duty sibling' right there on the carpet amongst the cake crumbs and discarded wrapping paper.

And, um, not to overshare or anything, but it seems that's kinda what happened ... I'm sure we packed the dishwasher and put the dog out first (and frankly I'm really astounded we had the energy - those penguin cupcakes were hard work), but ja, looks like it all went down that weekend.

I'm not an events coordinator for nothing see.

And so from cake crumbs to cracker crumbs, in our bed, first thing in the morning, as I staved off some very mild morning queasiness. To the crumbs of energy that I mustered to write the pathetic handful of entries I've made here the last couple of months. To the crumb(ling) emotional moments I've had when The Reality of it all has seemed overwhelming. To the first crumbs of excitement and wonder as my belly's swelled (astoundingly quickly this time round!).

To the little crumb of a thing we met this morning at our first scan. 12 weeks and 3 days old, 7 cm long, waving hands and kicking legs, opening and closing its little teeny-weeny mouth. Hello you, here beginith a story indeed ...

Oh and PS, I hereby banish the phrase 'duty sibling' and will from now on vehemently deny ever having coined it or used it. 'Cos it's my blog so I can see : )