I once heard a story, bullshit no doubt, about a man who sat down in a restaurant and arranged a pile of R10 notes on the table beside his place setting. Apparently he then informed his waiter/ress (waitron?) that this would be his/her tip for the evening, and that he would remove and return notes to the pile depending on the service he received throughout his meal.
Great story.
It puts me in mind of my nights at the moment.
On a good evening I go to bed with 8-10 hours ahead until morning. I snuggle down and get comfy, this set of hours taunting me from the face of my bedside clock. As yet unsullied by insomnia, feeds, Frieda's nocturnal needs, car alarms, cat fights, snoring (husband's, not mine), the night stretches ahead.
But quickly, tragically quickly, I start to see the pile diminishing before my eyes and dawn approaching with ever-increasing speed.
Stella wakes short of her usual 5 hour stretch. She's awake for an hour.
As I doze off again, Frieda starts coughing, and then wakes. She's awake for an hour.
A small ginger cat scratches herself repeatedly beside my ear.
Car doors slam in the street, a high sharp laugh penetrates my slumbers.
I need to pee.
I'm getting panicky and therefore, can't sleep.
The pile gets smaller. There are only a few crisp, virgin hours left 'til morning. I feel ill.
In truth Frieda's finally sleeping through the night again as she recovers from the Big Easter Sick, but while I had a good sustainable rhythm going before that, this week or so of illness has left me with a backlog of exhaustion which requires more than one or two good nights to remedy.
I remember in one of the baby books I read before having Frieda (before I wised up and banned that shit from my home forever - purveyors of self-doubt and neurosis that they are) it was suggested that one refrain from checking the time when your baby wakes in the night, but rather just feed, change, sleep - the 'logic' being that if you don't know that you're awake at 3am you won't feel so tired.
Yeah right. I like to know, I've a big-faced digital monster next to my bed which I can punch to light up and reveal the time, and I feel much more in control when able to map my allocated hours, even if what my clock's telling me is deeply sad and depressing.
So imagine the confusion, horror nay, betrayal I felt this morning to discover that my clock was 2h slow all night last night.
Stella's perceived 'early' wake-up at midnight was in fact her normal 2am. The fight which took place between a taxi driver and a drunken Pom outside our house was in fact at 3 not 1 (incidently totally justifying my call to the local security patrol to come and shut them up). Stella's subsequent two wake ups were actually at 4 and 6, not 2 and 4, Frieda's coming into our room and wanting breakfast was at 7, not 5. See the confusion?
It was like that pile of notes kept falling off the table and on reassembly I wasn't able to see how many, if any, were missing. It was as if they were in a foreign currency altogether.
My brain, already working at lowest possible capacity, blipped and rebooted, my body clock gave up and shut down. Deep in my subconscious I cursed Sister Lillian for possible being right all along.
And do I feel more or less rested in the knowledge that I probably got more sleep than I thought even while stressing about the lack thereof?
Honestly? I'm too exhausted to know ...
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Sunday, April 04, 2010
my facebook status ...
... kinda says it all ...
Molly is seriously over this weekend. 4 x sick peeps, 1 x trip to emergency ward, 1 x family outing to the GP, 1 x GP house-call this morning, about a grand in medical bills, 4 loads of soiled laundry, a truckload of meds and the entire Planet Earth series. Twice. Roll on Tuesday I say!
6 minutes ago · Comment
Molly is seriously over this weekend. 4 x sick peeps, 1 x trip to emergency ward, 1 x family outing to the GP, 1 x GP house-call this morning, about a grand in medical bills, 4 loads of soiled laundry, a truckload of meds and the entire Planet Earth series. Twice. Roll on Tuesday I say!
6 minutes ago · Comment
Friday, April 02, 2010
bad, bad friday
The first inklings actually happened yesterday, Thursday, when at an unprecedented early hour, and just a scant 45 min after we'd gone to bed, the Baby awoke demanding her first feed at 11.30pm. Simultaneously husband broke out in a fever, I got the dread feeling that I was getting the same ailment as him, and the Child started up her hacking cough from her bedroom across the passage, a cough which was develop fairly rapidly into cries for 'Mummmyyyyyy'.
'Twas then that I knew it would be Bad Friday.
The feeling grew throughout the night as every hour it seemed one of us would wake with some or other complaint, but had I been psychic I would actually have known back on Tuesday evening, when I fell prey to a random 24 hour stomach bug.
Because, of the smorgasbord of ailments currently on offer in our house: sinusitis, chest infection, tonsillitis, bladder infection and radically grumpiness, the one Stella chose to embrace was, of course, the shits.
She rendered a display on our cream bed linen which would've made Jackson Pollack a little envious. She projectile vomitted from her bendy chair on the table onto the black slate floor so that it seemed a flock of seagulls had spent the morning in the kitchen.
By midday I had a full laundry load of soiled clothes and blankets in the washing machine. She's currently asleep under one of her hooded towels, with a stack more of them standing by for whatever the night may hold.
But it was in the afternoon, with a swollen and aching throat, shaky limbs, my ears still ringing from Frieda's piercing screams to 'COME WITH YOU MUMMY', as I sat in the waiting room of the emergency ward with Stella, while she filled my cleavage with yet another load of regurgitated milk, that I really, really knew: Bad, Bad, Baaaaaad Friday.
Stella is fine, I've just got to keep feeding her and cleaning up after her 'til she gets better, Frieda recovered from the trauma of being left behind but still has her cough, husband kept his head down and more importantly, his cool, and got us through supper and bath time relatively incident free, and now it's 8.30 pm and I'm dousing myself with breastfeeding friendly drugs (read: highly unsatisfactory medicine) and going to bed to weep a little into my Orla Kiely's.
The Easter Bunny better have a truckload of chocolate heading our way.
'Twas then that I knew it would be Bad Friday.
The feeling grew throughout the night as every hour it seemed one of us would wake with some or other complaint, but had I been psychic I would actually have known back on Tuesday evening, when I fell prey to a random 24 hour stomach bug.
Because, of the smorgasbord of ailments currently on offer in our house: sinusitis, chest infection, tonsillitis, bladder infection and radically grumpiness, the one Stella chose to embrace was, of course, the shits.
She rendered a display on our cream bed linen which would've made Jackson Pollack a little envious. She projectile vomitted from her bendy chair on the table onto the black slate floor so that it seemed a flock of seagulls had spent the morning in the kitchen.
By midday I had a full laundry load of soiled clothes and blankets in the washing machine. She's currently asleep under one of her hooded towels, with a stack more of them standing by for whatever the night may hold.
But it was in the afternoon, with a swollen and aching throat, shaky limbs, my ears still ringing from Frieda's piercing screams to 'COME WITH YOU MUMMY', as I sat in the waiting room of the emergency ward with Stella, while she filled my cleavage with yet another load of regurgitated milk, that I really, really knew: Bad, Bad, Baaaaaad Friday.
Stella is fine, I've just got to keep feeding her and cleaning up after her 'til she gets better, Frieda recovered from the trauma of being left behind but still has her cough, husband kept his head down and more importantly, his cool, and got us through supper and bath time relatively incident free, and now it's 8.30 pm and I'm dousing myself with breastfeeding friendly drugs (read: highly unsatisfactory medicine) and going to bed to weep a little into my Orla Kiely's.
The Easter Bunny better have a truckload of chocolate heading our way.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
oddities
Cape Town? Coincidence? Hand of Fate? Circle of Life? An unerring ability to over-analyse?
I'm not sure what you could call them, the couple of odd events around Stella's recent birth. Maybe they have different explanations, but some of them were pretty strange. Or I'd have thought them strange had I not lived in Cape Town all my life and gotten used to these kind of weird cross-overs.
Or maybe 'cos I've lived in Cape Town all my life I just don't realise that this is a world-wide phenomenon, not limited to this sleepy city by the sea. That actually there are only 6 degrees of separation between any of us.
But let's not over-analyse: herewith the facts.
As I've described before, the day I went into labour with Frieda I'd spent the whole afternoon trawling a big local mall. The ultimate Babylon of malls I might add, a monolith a good couple of kilometres long. No one who heard that walking up and down that beast induced labour have been at all surprised.
Anyhoo, on Wed 10 March this year I set off to that same mall, one which I usually avoid like the plague, sending a text to my husband to say 'taking drastic action, heading into Canal Walk, stand by for waters breaking'.
A friend has subsequently decided it's all in the name: (Birth) Canal Walk. I got home from that shopping expedition at 4pm, my waters broke at 5.
Weird huh?
Much, much later that night an aneathetist was called to administer a very, very welcome epidural. (Seriously, let's hear it for the epidural!). He had a long ponytail (ok, that is very Cape Town) and looked vaguely familiar. Turns out he used to live in our road.
Of course he did.
Husband and I are also convinced we used to see him on the outdoor rave circuit of our wild youth. What better recreational activity for an aneasthetics med student?
Finally, a week after Stella's birth I took her to my preferred clinic for a weigh-in etc. The usual assistant nurse wasn't there, another woman was standing in for her. She introduced herself and started completing Stella's clinic card. Then she stopped and looked up, 'I was at your c-section' she said. 'Last Thursday morning? 5am?'
Turns out she'd been assisting the attending pediatrician. I hadn't been aware of her presence but she'd been there. And now our paths were crossing here, at a clinic where she helps out max once or twice a month, and happened to be there the day Stella and I went in.
A little strange.
'I didn't see you there' I said, 'and if I didn't see you, how many other people were present that I wasn't aware of?'
'Oh', she said, 'they put up that little screen so you can't see anything and then they open to whole event up to a studio audience.'
Ha. Ha. Ha.
I'm not sure what you could call them, the couple of odd events around Stella's recent birth. Maybe they have different explanations, but some of them were pretty strange. Or I'd have thought them strange had I not lived in Cape Town all my life and gotten used to these kind of weird cross-overs.
Or maybe 'cos I've lived in Cape Town all my life I just don't realise that this is a world-wide phenomenon, not limited to this sleepy city by the sea. That actually there are only 6 degrees of separation between any of us.
But let's not over-analyse: herewith the facts.
As I've described before, the day I went into labour with Frieda I'd spent the whole afternoon trawling a big local mall. The ultimate Babylon of malls I might add, a monolith a good couple of kilometres long. No one who heard that walking up and down that beast induced labour have been at all surprised.
Anyhoo, on Wed 10 March this year I set off to that same mall, one which I usually avoid like the plague, sending a text to my husband to say 'taking drastic action, heading into Canal Walk, stand by for waters breaking'.
A friend has subsequently decided it's all in the name: (Birth) Canal Walk. I got home from that shopping expedition at 4pm, my waters broke at 5.
Weird huh?
Much, much later that night an aneathetist was called to administer a very, very welcome epidural. (Seriously, let's hear it for the epidural!). He had a long ponytail (ok, that is very Cape Town) and looked vaguely familiar. Turns out he used to live in our road.
Of course he did.
Husband and I are also convinced we used to see him on the outdoor rave circuit of our wild youth. What better recreational activity for an aneasthetics med student?
Finally, a week after Stella's birth I took her to my preferred clinic for a weigh-in etc. The usual assistant nurse wasn't there, another woman was standing in for her. She introduced herself and started completing Stella's clinic card. Then she stopped and looked up, 'I was at your c-section' she said. 'Last Thursday morning? 5am?'
Turns out she'd been assisting the attending pediatrician. I hadn't been aware of her presence but she'd been there. And now our paths were crossing here, at a clinic where she helps out max once or twice a month, and happened to be there the day Stella and I went in.
A little strange.
'I didn't see you there' I said, 'and if I didn't see you, how many other people were present that I wasn't aware of?'
'Oh', she said, 'they put up that little screen so you can't see anything and then they open to whole event up to a studio audience.'
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
if I were ...
... less boob-brained I'd write one of the many posts I've got circling round in my brain. But as it is I'm far too blissed out on baby love and just a tad sleep-deprived, so here's a meme I copied from Julie - and literally copied, as you can see from the lack of CAPS. The answers are my own though!
if i were a month i’d be March
if i were a day i’d be a birthday
if i were a time of day i’d be 15h30
if i were a font i’d be Bookman Old Style
if i were a sea animal i’d be a Southern Right Whale
if i were a direction i’d be left
if i were a piece of furniture i’d be a squishy sofa
if i were a liquid i’d be tea
if i were a gemstone i’d be an opal
if i were a tree i’d be an oak
if i were a tool i’d be a spirit level
if i were a flower i’d be a frangi-pani
if i were an element of weather i’d be summer rain
if i were a musical instrument i’d be a drum
if i were a colour i’d be blue
if i were an emotion i’d be calm
if i were a fruit i’d be a cling peach
if i were a sound i’d be loud
if i were an element i’d be something shiny
if i were a car i’d be a silver
if i were a food i’d be lemon meringue pie
if i were a place i’d be a mountain river
if i were material i’d be 300 threadcount
if i were a taste i’d be cardamom
if i were a scent i’d be lemon
if i were a body part i’d be a hand
if i were a song i’d be Natural Mystic by Bob Marley
if i were a bird i’d be a sandpiper
if i were a gift i’d be just what you always wanted
if i were a city i’d be unhappy
if i were a door i’d be open
if i were a pair of shoes i’d be converse all stars
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
stella
Mine was a childhood of unfenced properties, of doors left ajar all night to catch cool breezes, of unbarred windows left open - 365 days a year - for the kitties. Of cars left unlocked, keys in the ignition, parked haphazardly on the lawn.
In what seems an Enid Blyton-esque idyll in comparison to contemporary suburban South Africa, my brothers and I wandered happily and unsupervised around our neighbourhood, in and out of our neighbour's houses, up and down the streets on our BMX's, stopping at whichever house was closest for a glass of Oros and, hopefully, a snack.
The village we lived in was regarded as a retirement paradise, all our immediate neighbours were elderly. One, Stella, was raising her grandson. He was our playmate, a small kid, a little sad around the edges but well loved and cared for by his doting granny.
It's only since becoming a parent myself that I've truly appreciated the enormity of her task. It's tiring enough raising kids in your mid-30's, let alone at 65+.
But Stella took her job seriously, and although I remember even at my young age noticing when she looked tired, she never had anything but kind words and a generous heart towards the disheveled and grimy rag tag and bobtail mix of neighbourhood kids who'd traipse through her house.
Even as our small friend's 'mummy', Stella was always a 'granny' to us. A granny in that her kitchen always smelt of baked goods, she always seemed to have set jellies in her fridge, often served with that most exotic of treats - boxed custard, and when bandaging your knee or giving you a consoling hug, she always had that perfumey old worldy elderly lady smell about her.
I don't recall Stella ever sitting down, except in the enormous diesel Merc she drove around the village. She was not unlike a little bird, short, bright-eyed, continually in motion.
I found her intriguing.
That a granny would raise her grandson was so far outside my realm of 'normal' nuclear families as to be fascinating, not least of all as the mysterious back story of how this came to be was only alluded to in muttered code by my parents.
And with one granny aboard and the other, my Granny Molly, in exotic Cape Town, having a granny next door was much more in keeping with my - also skewed, probably by Enid Blyton! - view of how childhood should be.
But most of all, despite being a warm and kindly lady, I sensed in her a secret, a curtain round her emotions, a detachment of sorts. I was too young to understand it, I probably had a bunch of fanciful theories to explain it, but it gave her an intrigue lacking in the mothers of our other playmates, in the other elderly neighbours who gave us Eet-Sum-Mores and milk.
Stella. She's not the reason we've named our new daughter that, but I'm pleased to have the association with this grande dame of my childhood, who captured my imagination at such a young age and holds it still.
In what seems an Enid Blyton-esque idyll in comparison to contemporary suburban South Africa, my brothers and I wandered happily and unsupervised around our neighbourhood, in and out of our neighbour's houses, up and down the streets on our BMX's, stopping at whichever house was closest for a glass of Oros and, hopefully, a snack.
The village we lived in was regarded as a retirement paradise, all our immediate neighbours were elderly. One, Stella, was raising her grandson. He was our playmate, a small kid, a little sad around the edges but well loved and cared for by his doting granny.
It's only since becoming a parent myself that I've truly appreciated the enormity of her task. It's tiring enough raising kids in your mid-30's, let alone at 65+.
But Stella took her job seriously, and although I remember even at my young age noticing when she looked tired, she never had anything but kind words and a generous heart towards the disheveled and grimy rag tag and bobtail mix of neighbourhood kids who'd traipse through her house.
Even as our small friend's 'mummy', Stella was always a 'granny' to us. A granny in that her kitchen always smelt of baked goods, she always seemed to have set jellies in her fridge, often served with that most exotic of treats - boxed custard, and when bandaging your knee or giving you a consoling hug, she always had that perfumey old worldy elderly lady smell about her.
I don't recall Stella ever sitting down, except in the enormous diesel Merc she drove around the village. She was not unlike a little bird, short, bright-eyed, continually in motion.
I found her intriguing.
That a granny would raise her grandson was so far outside my realm of 'normal' nuclear families as to be fascinating, not least of all as the mysterious back story of how this came to be was only alluded to in muttered code by my parents.
And with one granny aboard and the other, my Granny Molly, in exotic Cape Town, having a granny next door was much more in keeping with my - also skewed, probably by Enid Blyton! - view of how childhood should be.
But most of all, despite being a warm and kindly lady, I sensed in her a secret, a curtain round her emotions, a detachment of sorts. I was too young to understand it, I probably had a bunch of fanciful theories to explain it, but it gave her an intrigue lacking in the mothers of our other playmates, in the other elderly neighbours who gave us Eet-Sum-Mores and milk.
Stella. She's not the reason we've named our new daughter that, but I'm pleased to have the association with this grande dame of my childhood, who captured my imagination at such a young age and holds it still.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
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.
~ 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.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
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 ...
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 ...
Monday, March 08, 2010
f'king pregnant, f'king hot
It's like Groundhog Day. Every day I wake up: I'm still pregnant, it's still hot.
Like, real hot, and seriously pregnant.
I go to the movies to escape the heat. Last week I spent the morning with Alec Baldwin (there's just something about that man ...), today it was George Clooney (no explanation required).
I sit in the dark theatres, relishing the cool, the distraction, the eye-candy, wondering if I'm in labour.
I feel like a whiner. I've got it easy on so many levels but sometimes one just needs to whine. Must it be so f'king hot??
High 30's for the 5th day in a row - my feet, my feet ...
Watched The Incredible Hulk last night (yes, my brain is also currently affected) and could totally relate. I sit on the couch with multiple pillows behind my back, in front of the fan, my feet in a bucket of iced water. Husband replenishes the ice. Dog drinks from the footbath. Cat sulks across the room 'cos I just can't bear her additional warmth on me.
I really thought it was game on this weekend. Contractions started on Friday evening and continued through the night. Up to 5 in an hour, 25 seconds each. By Saturday morning they'd abated. We went for an early walk through the forest - I strided ahead in the hopes of getting things moving. A few more rumblings round lunchtime, then nothing. What was that?
It's hot. Did I mention that?
I've seen so many squashed squirrels in recent days. Are they also moving slower than usual?
I'm all about driving. Any excuse to grab some air-con.
I've been known to start whimpering as I reach my destination and know I have to get out and into the heat.
I got semi-stuck in a toilet cubicle today. Some f'king space-saver mall architect tried to squeeze too many cubicles into too small a space. Between the door opening in, the toilet bowl, the TP dispenser and my bump I couldn't find the best angle to exit. Handbag held high above my head I eventually made it, with much giggling. The giggling was only 'cos they had air-con. Otherwise it would not. have. been. funny.
Darling husband's done something to his back. This is not helping matters. We've promised that when this baby is born we'll make a concerted effort to be nicer to each other than we were in the colic hell of Frieda's first 3 months. We need to bring that arrangement forward a bit. Every evening when it cools down enough, round 9pm, we hug and apologise for being crabby bitches. Then we eat ice-cream in the pool.
That part's kind of nice.
F'king pregnant, f'king hot. That's me.
Check up today, baby's still dead happy where she is. After all of that. C-section booked for 17 March. All we can do is hope she makes an appearance before then.
And try to stay cool. And nice.
Nice.
Like, real hot, and seriously pregnant.
I go to the movies to escape the heat. Last week I spent the morning with Alec Baldwin (there's just something about that man ...), today it was George Clooney (no explanation required).
I sit in the dark theatres, relishing the cool, the distraction, the eye-candy, wondering if I'm in labour.
I feel like a whiner. I've got it easy on so many levels but sometimes one just needs to whine. Must it be so f'king hot??
High 30's for the 5th day in a row - my feet, my feet ...
Watched The Incredible Hulk last night (yes, my brain is also currently affected) and could totally relate. I sit on the couch with multiple pillows behind my back, in front of the fan, my feet in a bucket of iced water. Husband replenishes the ice. Dog drinks from the footbath. Cat sulks across the room 'cos I just can't bear her additional warmth on me.
I really thought it was game on this weekend. Contractions started on Friday evening and continued through the night. Up to 5 in an hour, 25 seconds each. By Saturday morning they'd abated. We went for an early walk through the forest - I strided ahead in the hopes of getting things moving. A few more rumblings round lunchtime, then nothing. What was that?
It's hot. Did I mention that?
I've seen so many squashed squirrels in recent days. Are they also moving slower than usual?
I'm all about driving. Any excuse to grab some air-con.
I've been known to start whimpering as I reach my destination and know I have to get out and into the heat.
I got semi-stuck in a toilet cubicle today. Some f'king space-saver mall architect tried to squeeze too many cubicles into too small a space. Between the door opening in, the toilet bowl, the TP dispenser and my bump I couldn't find the best angle to exit. Handbag held high above my head I eventually made it, with much giggling. The giggling was only 'cos they had air-con. Otherwise it would not. have. been. funny.
Darling husband's done something to his back. This is not helping matters. We've promised that when this baby is born we'll make a concerted effort to be nicer to each other than we were in the colic hell of Frieda's first 3 months. We need to bring that arrangement forward a bit. Every evening when it cools down enough, round 9pm, we hug and apologise for being crabby bitches. Then we eat ice-cream in the pool.
That part's kind of nice.
F'king pregnant, f'king hot. That's me.
Check up today, baby's still dead happy where she is. After all of that. C-section booked for 17 March. All we can do is hope she makes an appearance before then.
And try to stay cool. And nice.
Nice.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
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