A-HA! So they ARE friends

Everyone needs something warm to cosy up to.

I prefer mine to shed less hair, but hey. Sometimes you can't be fussy.

Ok, hands up who remembers this

I LOVED this Christmas cartoon. It made Christmas morning. The abominable snowman who has it in for Rudolph, the sound of Rudolph's nose when it glowed (*wom....wom....wom*)..... the fatty fat Santa. All of it. Loved it.

Best. Christmas. Cartoon. Ever.


Other notable shows that made our Christmas mornings: Shirl's Neighbourhood with Claude the Crow and Norm the Kangaroo, and the obligatory 6am Thunderbirds screening. And kids these days.... they miss out.

This is becoming...

.. a pretty boring blog if you don't like dogs.

But I just have to share this.

Doing her bit for the Socceroos

Meanwhile, Miss Jazzus dazzles us all with her ball handling and deflating skills ...

Reenie's Getting Married

And she didn't even tell me. Ever since I've been seeing the ad for this show, Rene's Getting Married, on channel 10, I've been reading Rene (phoenetically, Renay) as Reenie. As in Pepperini. As in Pepper.

So now I have visions of a reality tv show of my old dog in a wedding dress trying to find suitable bachelors.

Any suitors out there who'd put up with a slightly snappish, jealous, brooding, shedding, whingey, deeply affectionate to a chosen few Kelpie? No hip troubles, still as deft as Harry Kewell with a ball (despite eyesight gradually fading), enjoys sprints in the park, nagging for left-overs and boasts selective hearing and as-yet unwavering indoor continence. Aged about 84. Applications closing soon.

"Well, hell-ow fellas"

To dry or not to dry.... THAT is the question

Drying my hair straight is no easy feat. Drying it properly, an even bigger challenge. Especially with arm fatigue in late pregnancy.

Found myself wondering this morning, as I struggled to keep my hands up, 'Should I just let go the straight look now.... or should I squeeze as many days out of my whimpy arms as I can?' More importantly, as today is my last visit to Dr Luffley before he a) goes on holiday and b) quite possibly sees me before Lolly greets the world, am I setting the bar too high?

Like..... after Ella was born, there was not a straight hair in sight. In fact, there wasn't even a dry one. It was simply shower, towel off, pin off face and scarper back to that cot quick smart. And while it's not a look I'm happy to display to the world, there's no real option when you've just had a baby. Despite what others have said to me about "You won't care what you look like when you have that baby in your arms", erm strangely I did still care whether I looked like shite or not - makes me feel better to not look like how I feel sometimes. It wasn't a matter of not caring, per say, it was more a case of 'Can't Do' because there simply wasn't any time.

So.What to do, what to do. I mean, I don't want it to look like I'm not down with the new baby thing by having lovely straight lustrous locks today and then all of a sudden next time he sees me I'm in hospital and I'm looking like the crazy cat lady from The Simpsons who has dozens of cats and only talks gibberish - her hair is a sight.... (but thinking about it, maybe she just can't keep her hair dryer up for long enough to straighten it).

Am I over-thinking this?

And as an aside...
Oh will that FUCKING DOG shut up.

Holding a lantern

Helpless.

Hold on, mama. Hold on, little Butterfly.

So many weeks to go yet and still so little can be done but watch over you tenderly from afar. Such a big decision for a tiny, tiny being. Surely you don't want to come now. Don't rush your life.

Why are some spiritually contractual journeys so damned hard?

And so we wait and we pray and we hope with all our might that your road is not as rocky as your brave big brother's before you.

Hold on little one, pleeeease.

It's a matter of plumbing

This morning, our early morning banter-before-rising went thus:

K: Dr Luffley goes away this weekend for two weeks.... Lenny, all the things that seemed so far away and that I said "I'll deal with that when it comes" ..... have started to come! My next milestone was to make it to my birthday and that's next week. And the one after that was to get through til Dr Luffley gets back, and that's in three weeks' time.

S: Hey who's replacing him when he's on leave? What's the dr's name?

K: Scott Pearce.

S: Hey! He's not a doctor!

K: Wha'?

S: Nah, Scott Pearce is the guy I deal with at Pipeline Magazine.

K: Pipeline....Magazine. You mean that magazine about the wonderful world of pipes? I still can't get over the fact that there can be enough to say about pipes that'd fill an entire magazine. Every month.

S: Yeah *convincingly* there is. *laughing* I wonder if it's the same guy.

K: *withered look in the dark*

S: Hey I wonder if Dr Luffley put an ad in the paper.... "Wanted: Someone who knows a thing or two about pipes."

K: Well, it's all plumbing, isn't it.

S: Mmm, yeah. Pipes and tunnels.

The importance of things

To Pepper:

P: See, I think if I go like this .... mmmphff .... and shut my eyes reeeally, reeeeally tight, your tummy might go away. And then if it works I'll try it on Jazz and make her disappear too. So it can just be us again.
Like old times.

P: Ahhhh, shit. It didn't work......
Well ..... do you still love me anyway?

To Jazz:

J: Hey, which is my best side, do you think?

J: Ok, is it this way? Orrrr....

J: This way?

J: Yeah, I agree. Full frontal is cutest. So, like, is the angle of my head ok? Do I look good in this? I am soooo trying to understand what you're saying, but honestly I'm more interested in....



J: ...trying to out-cute Peppy.


P: Does this mean ..... you don't love me anymore? I'm sorry, whatever I did. Just in case.
...... and I won't do it again. If you could just let me know what it was.

Carnage at the Hairdressers

"It was just awful. He just kept brushing and brushing and...... there he is! Oh Gohhhhd,
and he still has the comb in his hand. I'll be good, I promise I'll be good.
Save meeee, mummy."




The aftermath of an hour's worth of brushing. With possibly another two hours required.

Pimp my Rocker

And in a burst of exuberant energy (which lasted til about 10 minutes before the final stitch and then saw me starting to lose it, figuratively and literally, from not only the back ache but the steely pig-headedness to finish or be damned), I have shabby chîc'd a new bouncinette cover.

It is yet to be adorned with the obligatory "Grandma's handy skill" quilting effect on the flowers (which apparently will make the flowers raise above the rest of the fabric and look all cute n' puffy, she assures me), but it's done. Sans pattern. In one arvo.

*chest is puffier than a red robin*

And all made from scraps of material and quilters' foam.

Signed,
Martha Stewart

Q: When is a dog lover NOT a dog lover

A: When she has a dog living next door who creates so much helplessness and anxiety that she feels she may lose her sanity.

Our new neighbours moved in in October last year. So basically, they and their fucking dog (it's the only thing I can call it) have been living next to us for my entire pregnancy. The first time I approached them about how often he is barking when they are out was early this year, February or March. I was inundated with apologies, visits from him and her at my front door to explain what new wonderful method they were going to try. These ranged from a zap collar (which I think they never even tried because the guy was already voicing how expensive they are) to the citronella spray canister which squirts into the dog's face every time it barks.

They apparently took the citronella collar back to the vet to say it wasn't working and the vets were amazed that they had run out of citronella already...... yes, they were stupid enough to divulge this to me. Like proud parents of their over-excelling fur-child.

I called the council in March. "What can be done about this?" I pleaded. They took details - mine and the fucking dog's - and said they would send out information to us (that we needed to keep a barking diary to document the disruption) and also send out a ranger to visit the neighbours. This was apparently, as I understood it, a first step.

I gave up on the barking diary. My bad. But still the fucking dog barked on. Steve and I have, over the past months since Easter, resorted to our own methods of getting him to shut the hell up. A deep gutteral growl is all it takes now and he will be quiet. Pity the neighbour's wife and daughter can't do the same. He barks when they are home, he only shuts up if the guy is there (or if someone lets him in). When they are home, he even ignores me. So I prefer them now to be out so I can growl at the shit head.

Problem is, Lolly ain't that forgiving anymore. It takes several minutes sometimes to get up and get to the door, by which time Murphy's Law has prevailed and he's stopped. So I stand at the door, exhausted from the effort, and then hope he DOES bark just so I can reprimand him! It's a bloody nightmare.

Called the council again yesterday and downloaded their new and improved "So your neighbours have a barking dog and you want to maim it" booklet. Turns out, no one ever did go next door, they were never sent any information - it all came to us.

Oh. Actually, it seems the onus is ALLLLLLL on us. I have to keep a barking diary for a fortnight. I have to round up other neighbours as witnesses to the barking. I have to prove I have attempted to resolve the issue through the Dispute Settlement Centre of Victoria..... before the council will even step in. And the icing on the cake? I then have to keep the barking diary of the fucking dog's habits for another month "to monitor if the barking continues or improves as the result of any further action being taken".

What the?! The fucking dog's own owners acknowledge he is a nuisance barker. There is no dispute to settle. JUST SHUT HIM THE HELL UP!!! Whatever it takes. Call a trainer to come to your home, people! Seriously, is it really that difficult? Yes, apparently it is, because heaven forbid they should spend any money to train him - ok, it seems unfair from their point of view as the dog is not disrupting them. But if you've bought a pet and it's turned out to be a nuisance animal, for whatever reason, you are responsible for fixing it! Despite the $$'s it may take. It seems that because they are out all day and don't have to listen to it, they're not putting any effort in at all now. He is an intelligent, bored, untrained dog. And they are irresponsible for owning him in this manner.

As Steve very aptly said, if we decided to turn up music full boar at 2am tomorrow morning, we would be reported and the police would be knocking on our door for disruption of the peace. But I ask you, how am I supposed to accurately keep a barking diary of the fucking dog's every bark when I am trying to work, trying to relax (pah, fat freakin' chance) and trying to prepare for birth???

Gahhhhhhhhhhd people shit me sometimes.

These dreams go on when I close my eyes

Every second of the night, I live another life.

Yeah, thanks Heart. God I loved that song.

But I digress. Before I even start.

I had the most godawful all-nighter of a dream last night. I don't want to go into it again, suffice to say it was about the baby and wasn't all peachy. Just deeply rooted subconscious fear stuff. Luckily I had an appointment this morning with Dr Luffley, so didn't have to wait too long before seeing that lovely little person on the ultrasound screen again.

And what a show I was given.

Instead of being that little blob, or the squirming arm and leg buds, or the lanky bundle of limbs, or the little ball of chub squeezing its own cheeks... where once I could see the whole length of a body, what I saw today was so amazing I can hardly describe it in words. I was greeted by a face that filled the entire screen. With a face as large as, well, life. Sucking a thumb. Then taking it out and rubbing both eyes with pudgy fists. I was gobsmacked. And Dr Luffley said "Isn't it so amazing, it's like watching them in a cot or something!"

It was exactly the antedote I had needed to clear out the remainder of the nasty feelings from the dream I couldn't shake. It was too much. During the Q&A portion of the visit (which despite what some may think hardly ever happens - I never really have questions), where I had a full list written out which Dr Luffley dutifully and respectfully ran through with me, I lost it and began to cry. It is all so surreal. I tear up again as I think, just a month ago even, I didn't dare be so bold as to assume this would come. This day where I was planning what I needed to do when Lolly gives a not-so-gentle rap on the door, I never honestly allowed myself to believe it'd come so I didn't think about it.

Being forced to make some necessary arrangements, such as work out what I do if I go into labour when Dr Luffley is still technically on leave and not "on call" but promised he'd come in for us if it happened before he was back consulting and delivering.... it's all a bit much. The last of my fears - and I will only divulge as much as to say it involves cords and the disasters I have heard about in the last two years in the new parallel world in which I reside with other parents - was alleviated today. My question was answered. I was reassured. And I feel like I've buckled in for the steepest part of the ride. The end bit, the big finale on the big dipper!

I returned to the waiting room and kept it together very admirably, while performing a urine test, the result strip over which not one but two women pored for a tad too long until they even called Dr Luffley over in between appointments - ewwww, don't get him to look at my wee-stick! - who came back to the reception window where I was waiting, to reassure me the result was fine. I have no idea why I had to give them a cup of my pee (which was like liquid gold because despite being busting, my bladder now holds about 2ml of liquid at any given time and takes forever to refill). I forget what they were testing. All I know is, whatever it was, I passed. The test as well as the pee.

On the way home, I called Steve. By the time I got out to the car, I just wanted a good cry to release all the tension. I had hoped to join him for lunch. His office is about 15 minutes due south from there. But no, I had forgotten he was in the city in training all day.... so I kept it together a bit longer while I told him Lolly's antics for the morning, got off the phone from him and then blubbered on the way home.

Here's where it gets funny. I only really started to cry when I heard Private Eye, by Hall & Oats, on the radio. I had cranked it up earlier, and then on came this old classic. I was immediately transported back to the age of 9 where I sat as a passenger in our combi van, surrounded by my two brothers and sister, mum and dad in the front. We were returning from a day trip to Warrnambool back to our camp site at Peterborough (the yearly summer holiday destination) and I was perfecting my singing. I had discovered that I could sing quietly without anyone else hearing, or so I thought, if I directed my voice into the window. I honestly thought I was the only one who could hear me. As I belted out Private Eye, once more with feeling. And then Man Eater. So earnestly that I believed I was in the film clip. I think I must have had a Hall & Oats obsession that summer.

Well, turns out, my older brother did hear. And told me huffily to shuddup. For anyone who has seen Napoleon Dynamite, when I saw this movie I thought someone had followed my older brother around to get ideas for the character. Right down to the sullen bottom lip, hair and 'tude. It's uncanny how similar they are, I could be looking at my brother back in the early 80's, it's just too funny.

I remembered that in an instant today, driving home. And I felt, I don't know... I guess I felt sad for that little girl. That she couldn't possibly have known then what would happen to her first baby - I was baby crazy, especially at the age of 9 (and every other year, I won't lie). It would have snuffed a light out in me forever, right there. All the intrigue and beauty and mystery of babies.

And then I laughed. I laughed at myself crying while belting out a very poor rendition of Private Eye once again 22 years later, this time with big fat tears rolling down my hormonally chubby cheeks and no one to shut me the hell up. How tragic, above all, that it was Hall and Freakin' Oats that got to me. Shit, don't tell anyone. I'm so embarrassed.

God. What a mess of a post this has been.

Her father must be so proud

I speak, dear reader, of that modern day Nightingale...... J.Lo.

Now, for one so unlucky in love who has now professed to have found The One ("no really, this time it's fer real") for the third time, I fail to see how singing a song with a rapper - and I use the terms "singing" and "song" (and "rapper" I suppose) very loosely - that contains the words "you got what it takes to make me leave my man", I have to look wryly at that poor dog's dinner of a bloke who she's married to and say "..... Condolences (hastily) Just in case."

This is me... in a nutshell

I swear, if Lolly doesn't come out fashioning a dapper scarf, or bearing gifts of macrame pot hangers, I'll be surprised. I swear there is knitting or something similar going on in there at the bottom. And kicking to rival Thumper at the top.

This is so bizarre. I wonder if Ella would have been like this if she'd stayed in or if it's just Lolly's characteristic activity. I mean, Ella kicked and moved, but this baby...... despite getting a very chilled-out vibe from the Lollster, there's certainly much gusto behind those kicks and punches. I get full on lumpy bits, bones, my baby's bones!, rolling over my belly. I can imagine sometimes, when it's obvious a limb has become entwined with another, ankles uncrossing or a shoulder brushing against the inside of my belly.

In fact, I've started to quote that classic Austin Powers line quite often in these moments because I picture little Lolly doing the actions he does, feet and hands up as if pushing against a nutshell.

Setting the record straight - it's only fair

I only admitted to having one Phil Collins cd.

*deliberately very very small text* But I really have four. Six if you count the 2 Genesis ones.

And I shall call him....

Lovely Lenny.

Or ... Boy. I can't decide.

"Lovely Lenny, can you get me a drink?"

"Boy! I need a drink, three pillows, my magazine, the phone, the remote control, the toily, lunch, my hairbrush and a pair of pants."

Yes. I believe I can demand more with Boy.

Jazz takes her responsibilities seriously

Well this is us, another month down the track. I can't believe it's been four weeks since our anniversary (and the 28 week belly shot). It's alternately the fastest and the longest pregnancy in history, surely. Well, discounting celebrity ones, because they always seem to go for 3 years.

This is not a posed photo. Jazz often comes and sits dutifully in front of me now and just staaaares. She has taken to checking on my growing stomach often, she sticks her nose right against it and takes a big double-checking doggy sniff. Very delicately. She's very sweet. Funny that through all my other pregnancies, we didn't have her. We had needy Pep, who didn't pick up on it once, not even with Ella. But by 14 weeks with Lolly, Jazz was my overenthusiastic, severely over-waggy-tailed protector. I think she has a touch of The Shining. Except that she's neither a 5 year old boy with an imaginary friend called Tony, nor an old cook with a really big painting of a black woman with a massive afro above her bed. Oh, sorry..... have I just given away that I've seen The Shining once too often (the original, of course)? With that insipid, annoying bloody woman?

However, this isn't about Danny warning about redrum. This is about Lolly. At 32 weeks. And pushin' it. Reeeeeally pushin' it (the friendship, that is) right about now. Can't walk. I look at things I want/need, willing them to be within arm's reach so I don't have to put weight on my dicky right leg. But so far I haven't made anything levitate.

And I am thinking of asking Steve to get me a commode. Heh, hell he does everything else for me right about now. Why not get down to the nitty gritty and see how deep the rivers really run. Yeahhhh.

Thanks... for the memories

Those were the days

Who knew back then that the line would beget Jubjub, who begat Lolly, who begat.... mwahahaha. Patience, my pretties. Just a few short weeks and all will be revealed.

But gosh, doesn't a line on a stick just give you the tingles??! The fainter the better. It's more mysteeeerious. And that line on that stick in that link up there - it looks so fragile, so not permanent! How could I have had the balls to even hope? Holy farrrk. It's hard core.

The downside to an idle mind at 5am

I've been thinking. Uh oh *groan*

I don't know how this has happened, or more to the point why *I* chose this for myself in that sacred contract before I started doing my time here, but I seem to have always been surrounded by women who on the surface appear supportive but are deeply the opposite. Not that they haven't given great amounts of themselves, mind. That's not what I'm saying. It's more a case of giving me what they are capable of - nothing wrong with that, it's human nature! But I compare that to what I get now from people (women) in my "new" life - post Ella - and there's really no comparison. I'm not even giving in the same way, not by a long shot because I've stockpiled my energy and emotional resources out of a need to survive. But I am receiving so much more. Why is that?!

It's a combination of things. First and foremost, I step up and acknowledge that I've come to realise that I am the one who has put them and their needs ahead of my own - not them. The old adage "no one can make you do anything" comes to mind. But I was thinking; that doesn't let them off the hook.

By their characters alone, they are individuals who allow that behaviour in me towards them. What a nice, convenient Out-clause that is. The benefits of having someone who does pretty much anything with/for you if you ask, who will allow you to be yourself around her at all times - unless you choose to hold back - who doesn't pass judgement on what you are doing or how you live your life unless you ask for her opinion.....

I dunno. I think I've made it too easy for them.

This doesn't mean I'd change, I wouldn't want to - it's who I am. I am naturally accommodating and gentle so why would I want to be the opposite of those things? Mind you, these traits don't stop me from having a temper at times (although I have mellowed immensely since I had and lost Ella, things seem less and less worthy of being so impulsive and wound-up about anymore as the months wear on). And it doesn't stop me from being opinionated, or rather, having an opinion on things that matter to me. I just don't blurt them out, particularly to these women.

Why have I feared them so much? Why have I avoided conflict at all costs? Because it's backed me into a corner over the years, caught up in a vicious circle that I've found myself in now: they think I agree with them at every turn, I assume because by my nature I haven't given my sometimes differing opinion to these women. I've simply allowed them the space to talk, to vent, to have their opinions.... and often they have been blunt opinions or observations about me, my life, which have been most hurtful sometimes - but to object has been a lesson in disaster (I was conditioned adeptly by a mother who was my first teacher in this area: never let them see you hurting, never object, or they'll laugh in your face and hurt you more by doing so, crushing your rightful instincts to defend yourself properly - and sadly, she was masterful at the causing hurt and crushing parts).

So over the years I also learned it was easier to simply not defend myself, turn yet another cheek (I'm the cheekiest person I know, mwahaha) but in the process, I've created a bit of a monster I think. My most often passive replies of "Mmmm I see what you mean" or non-committal "Yeah"s, all the while thinking "Well that's your opinion, not mine" but never saying it quite often enough to show where I stood and that I wasn't agreeing, has probably caused them to form a view of me that in many ways isn't real. In hindsight, I'm not sure now if that was fair of me to do (to them or to myself).

I don't agree with many things I've heard and seen being done by people close to me. But I don't go in where angels fear to tread and pass any comment - though I'm sure people know where I stand on many subjects, I'm not a push-over, not by a long shot - but I'm not offensive (don't mean to be, anyway) and have always taken the view in my recent adult years that "to each his own" is a very important thing to remember.

Where is this all leading? It all came up because I was lying here just wondering how it's going to be for me, for Steve, for Lolly.... how is it going to be for us as a unit in the coming months? Dare I even imagine myself here, in this home we've had waiting for so long, with a baby? Will I know what to do with Lolly? I think so, for the most part. Will I know what to do with me? With my emotions? Hmmm, not too sure. And who do I have that will come over and stroke my brow and make me a cup of tea and say "You're doing great"? Who do I have, in terms of close female support, that I feel comfortable having a crying meltdown of a tanty in front of?

The options are thin on the ground.

And then I started to feel sorry for myself. Because it was that question that became the realisation: I haven't had support like that for yeeeeeears. Maybe ever. I look at my relationships in hindsight, with women who have been close to me - mother figures, sister figures - and it's been about them, pretty much. Granted, as I acknowledged before, for the most part I have to put my hand up and say that I allowed myself to be put second in these relationships. Or, maybe it wasn't so much a case of "allowing" it but just that they asserted that their needs were always greater than mine. And I accepted that.

So really, I've always been on my own. It's not events of the recent few years that have caused these women to leave my lives in terms of the support I would have received if I'd been bringing a baby home and they'd been here, working in shifts to ensure I was emotionally supported. Hmmmm, no. They were "gone" a long time ago. And I'm sure they'd like to think they would have been a huge help to me at this time. But instead, I believe I would have been stifled by their strong personalities, afraid to put my hand up in my own home with my own baby and say "No I don't want to do it that way".

Now, I'm not saying I don't have anyone to replace them. Oh no. In fact, quite the opposite. It's like all the toxic relationships have given way to extremely supportive ones - I really only have people around me now who accept me and all my opinions. If I disagree, I've said so. And wow, there's been no issue - I've said it and we've moved on. This is so novel for me! My past has been a pattern of "don't let on what you really think because you'll be accused of - • being too sensitive, • being too inflexible, or you'll • get picked on, • cause the other person to have a hissy fit." No one can truly know me if those criteria have to be avoided because I've been shitscared of upsetting anyone in my formative years. If I wasn't scared, I would have no problem with just barrelling along, saying and doing what I think and please.... but that's just it: I'm at that place now. I do say as I think and please. And I haven't died! I don't have anyone jumping down my throat for doing so!

So the notion of me being visited by women from my "past" life in the early days after we bring Lolly home, while at first saddened me when I realised I have no one blood related to do the sharing and caring and nurturing thing with me, was really non-existent even if they'd turned up in droves in the flesh. I'm better off not having them around and doing this alone.

But that doesn't solve the "I feel alone" dilemma (in terms of having family support). I guess I'll just have to ask for more cyber support. Not exactly the same as having a good cry with someone into a coffee on a hormonal day.... but I know you're out there and will hold a hand out if I ask for it.

Every time I hear your voice....

Oh dear. Oh noooooo!!!!

Little Lolly has developed a bit of an attachment to my dictaphone client. I joked several months ago that there was a danger this could happen and Lolly would believe it was 'Daddy'. But I've been testing my theory the past two days. And shit, it's really happened I think!

Lolly is all quiet in there, I start a tape and so the client's voice begins dictating, I begin typing the report and BAM! BAM! KAPOW! Haaaaaaay-AH! Lolly starts kicking really animatedly. Like, jig-type kicking. I stop the tape, the Irish dancing stops.

Funniest thing? The client is gay. He thinks it's hilaaaaarious.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

It's a little known fact that I am, in fact, a Superhero.

On one of our first, fledgling forays into the titillating area of our relationship, we got caught. I was 18, living at home with Dad. We were living in a rambling old '40s era house in an old leafy suburb, it was a great house. The front entrance was open to the lounge room to the right, the kitchen was accessed via one of two doorways, one straight ahead of the front door, the other facing the dining room and with a two-way swinging hinged door which opened onto that room. There was a sunroom past the dining area, tacked on the back of the open plan house. To get there from the front door, one went either straight through the T-shaped lounge room and dining area or, if in the kitchen, simply swung open the hinged door and through the dining room.

I am setting all this architecture up in your minds so that you can fully grasp the gravity of the situation that follows.

It was a typical school day afternoon. I was in Yr 12, Steve was *supposed* to be at uni, no doubt, and instead of doing something constructive we were fooling around in the sunroom. In broad daylight. Geez, those were the days *wistfully stroking severely distended belly with the painful welts - they're no longer worthy of being deemed mere stretch marks*

Anyway, I can't remember the specifics, suffice to say somehow I was the one who ended up pasty white and bare nekid while he had left on all his clothes and simply pulled down his jeans and jocks to his ankles (typically boy-style, complete with socks still on and all). It was late-ish afternoon, not nearly late enough for anyone to be coming home from work. Unexpectedly. With briefcase in hand.

But all of a sudden, there was the over-exaggerated coming-home noises being made by Dad. He (respectfully? fearfully? playfully?) was making sooooo much noise, I knew that he knew exactly what he suspected we were up to...... he was whistling a jolly, tuneless whistle, and in case that wasn't enough, he clomped very loudly up the three steps to the front porch (making the three itty bitty steps sound like full on steps to be reckoned with), and in case that wasn't enough, he was also loudly jangling/fumbling with keys for far longer than was usual.

I stood bolt upright, stark narkered, and ran to the far corner of the sunroom. Without my previously hastily-strewn clothes. Why I did that and not just throw on my clothes, I do not know. Guess I got the guilts. And I was no cool cucumber back then. Not when I was nude, anyway....

While I did prancy nervous steps on the spot, shaking my arms (like Homer when he's missing the Chili Cookout) and eyes wide with "oh God, oh God"s, I watched as Steve simply stood from his seated pozzy on the couch, hoiked up his pants in one swift move, did up the zip and sat back down to "continue watching the cricket" innocently.

Meantime, Dad's in the front door by now, putting keys away, whistling gaily. "Hello!" he bellowed characteristically joyously. I spurred into action and called out a greeting in reply, pulling my crumpled clothes towards me in a mad scramble (they were all inside out, which could have been deemed romantic because of the "heat of the moment" passion that got them that way but were now just a fucking nuisance to turn the right side out and make presentable again). Pulling on my top while Dad carried out some conversation with me as he slowly made his way through the kitchen to, I don't know probably grab a knife to skewer Steve with, I amazed myself in hindsight at how deftly I was able to use the chit chat as a decoy to what was really going on in the next room. Just that swingy-door between us.

I jumped into my pants and whisked them up, replying conversationally to everything Dad was saying about his day. Never one to just leave it at that, and I guess to prove to myself that I had triumphantly averted danger, I sauntered towards the closed kitchen door, chatting with Dad all the while as he stood in the kitchen reading the mail.

It wasn't until I'd almost rounded the dining table, hand outstretched at the door, that I felt my other hand brush past a rogue piece of material at my side. What was that? Looking down, as if in slow motion, I realised it was a pocket. It took me a second or two to realise that I hadn't pulled my pockets inside out in my haste.... oh no. Far worse. I had put my pants on inside out, complete with undies on the outside as had been the state they'd been discarded in originally. The hoppy, unsteady banging on the old stumped floor I made as I struggled to literally rip the stitching off my undies to get them down and step out of them brought me to not only Steve's very amused attention, but also caused Dad to sing out, "What're you doing in there?"

Needless to say, I waved that off with some excuse and breezed in through the kitchen door, undies scrunched in a tight tight ball in my fist, which was now stuffed inside my pocket. And I continued to, probably very flustered-looking and giving away eeeev-er-y-thing I'd just been doing, carry out my conversation with Dad.

I think I got away with it. He certainly never said anything. But then... he's too proper to, even in gest.

And from that day on, after I recounted the story to very amused girlfriends, I was known as Supergirl, given my supposed preference to wear my undies on the outside.

Ahhh! A camera, I see you have mmmmmm

I have never seen a more worried-looking, unsure Yoda.
But shit, it's funny.

Hey, who knew Yoda had a grey muff?

A kick and a punch for the end of the month

I had a scan and Ob. appointment today.

Now, I've been a bit in the doldrums over the weekend. Lolly was not being incredibly accommodating because the kicking and tumbleturns had stopped for several days. On top of that, I feel fat. Nay, let me correct that: I AM fat. Except it's difficult to tell the difference between fluid and fat. I meet some people who say to me how "neat" I look and then just one person in the crowd has to say "Gosh you're huge" and I fall into a guilty heap that I'm going to constrict Lolly with all this blubber-fluid. Like when the neighbour who I never speak to - just cos, it's not a standoff or anything - she comes over, dainty and all Kath n' Kimmyish, and says to me, pointing, "Mmmm you're pretty big" in agreeance after I said I felt I'd put on a lot of extras around my face, arms and now legs. I hastily made my goodbyes and came inside and had a teary-fit.

Aaaaanyway, so I was blubbering on the couch *cough*with a bag of raspberry bullets*cough* kind of like, all weekend, just hanging out for my appointment yesterday.

The first thing Dr Luffley said was that I looked wonderful *sob* (he must have a chart of things he has to say before a woman leaves her appointment with him, because I swear, he tells me I look well or 'good' even when I've done my buttons up and missed one so there's a gape in my shirt and I've had only 3 hours sleep and forgotten to brush my teeth). Then, he took a look on the ultrasound monitor after I said I'd noticed the kicking had dropped away and I was hoping it was just because Lolly had turned. First, he said 'What a very sweet face' *sob sob* and showed me that, indeed, little Lollybubble has gone head down and is facing my right side with back curled the height of my left side. Then he said "So let's see if you're right, where do you suspect the feet are?" and I pointed. When he placed the wand at that spot on my belly, there was this big Hang Ten symbol of a foot - a perfect, could-have-been-a-cartoon foot, splayed across the wall of its little home. We watched as two little frog legs then kicked playfully against my placenta on my right side. Hence, I hadn't felt much because it's like kicking into a mattress, I guess.

I can't believe Lolly is bigger than Ella now. I'm finding it really hard to keep trusting we'll be in that room soon and will be staring straight into that lovely face. I don't want to begin to imagine how emotional I will be - I'm not really looking forward to being 'out of control' with all of that.... but I know I will be. So we're just keeping ourselves surrounded by people who we know will support and boost us through this last bit.

Oh my God. This last bit. There's, like...... less than 8 weeks to go. EEEEEEEP!!!!!!!!!

Here, have another funny dressed-up dog (I'm so weak. And they're so hilarious):

"In your satin tights, fighting for your rights...

...and the old red, white and bluuuuuuue."

Wonder Whatwhatwhaaaaat!?From here, of course.

Can't. Breathe.

I shouldn't listen

It started out innocently enough. But now I can't get it out of my mind, first thing in the morning it's what I think of. It's like I'm being called and I am weak for it. I think I am addicted.

Yes. I have been in love with IC Strong Iced Coffee now for at least 6 months.

The problem is, I didn't cover my tracks well enough. And Steve found out. It first started with
one empty 1.5L bottle in the recycling bin, with another on the go in the fridge door. To anyone not suspicious, this wouldn't be interesting. But ohhhhh no. Not my Steve. So I've been sneaking around behind his back. Taking the bottles straight to the wheelie bin. Shuffling off to Safeway (my dealer) during the day.

Then, in the ultimate act of stupidity a person with my addiction could make, I asked him to grab me a bottle once, about two months ago when he came with me to help me shop. 'Great!' I thought, 'I can get him to go up to the dairy section and I don't have as far to walk then.'

Yeah. Good PLAN, Einstein.

He came back, bottleless. I looked at him searchingly, checking his hands for the familiar brown container, carrying my fix. But instead, all I got was a lecture on whether I knew how much "those things" cost. My head hung. My heart sobbed.

It's been at least six weeks since my enforced cold turkey. At first, I couldn't even look at that section of the fridge as I passed by. A few weeks passed and I took my first glance, just to see if they're maybe on special, I said to myself. But there were none. There was a gap where they should have been. SOLD OUT! I thought. That'd be right.

And then, I succumbed about a week ago. I knew the section of flavoured milk was right at the end of the fridge, next to the Yakults. And the drinking yogurt. I sauntered up to the edge of the dairy case, held my hand out, and in what could very well have been a scene from a movie, I let out an audible gasp as I saw my hand in front of the spot where it SHOULD have been. No gap, no price tag. The real estate once taken up by my beloved liquid gold had been closed over, taken up by inferior Ideal Dairy and Mooove brands as far as my welling-up eyes could see.

When I got home and relayed the devastating news to Steve, he re-enacted how it must have gone down these past weeks at the IC Strong Iced Coffee factory:

*looking at imaginary endless computer-paper report and scratching head with pen* I don't get it, NSW's figures are good, SA still looks great, Victoria is fine.... but shit, the Whatman shipment isn't shifting. What's happening, people? If this keeps up, we'll have to close the doors.

Yeah, laugh it up, Funnyboy. They've stopped supplying my dealer! Now my only chance is to find some grimey servo that stocks them. And then we'll talk about how expensive it is for a 1.5L bottle of the stuff. Because you've now forced your pregnant wife to go scrounging around every Fuel Zone in the area .... and if I find a bottle, even if it's $3 for a 500ml bottle, you can bet your moccassins I'll be getting it.

*whimper* I can't stop thinkin' about the juice.

All We Want For Christmas...

...is a helper monkey

A bit of a grab-bag of thoughts

Had a really good appointment with my homoeopath yesterday. Despite our shaky start, I really do feel like I've been well supported by both his experience and, of course, the practice of this modality.

Ended up talking about a few things I didn't realise would come up. Namely, I felt free to say (admit) I had, up until the ultrasound last week, assumed my body couldn't carry a child "properly". In contrast, he sat there and said how impressed he was with how I've come to this point - no coughs, no colds or other infections (madly touching all wood within reach) bare little fluid retention, a relatively calm disposition apart from a couple of times along the way when the wheels have understandably come off.

I don't think even I realised how deeply wounded I have been by the, while always with best intentions (or so they portray/say outwardly), comments of various people since we had Ella. The offers of surrogacy, the assumption of prematurity this time - although even I was told that medically this would be the rule rather than the exception, most likely.... It's all woven itself into my view of myself as a mother capable of nurturing her as yet unborn child.

I want to scream from a mountain to however many people can hear me: BE CAREFUL, be so careful, what you say to other women - other mothers - in my position. It's not helpful at all to bloody receive offers of carrying your child for you. For heaven's sake. And I (stupidly) graciously thanked the person who offered, perpetuating their assumption that they have somehow helped or been so generous. I can't believe I contributed to puffing out even further the chest of someone who has been such a negative impact on us since Ella died (and well before, but that's for another blogspace entirely).

Well. It stops here. I feel so blessed right now. Today is the day my waters broke with Ella - in relative, gestational terms. And instead, I'm going to my breastfeeding class. I feel fit, happy, relaxed........ so excited and ready to lay eyes on this little Lolly in two+ months *saying out loud for effect so Lolly stays with the program*.

Steve Cuisine

Every time we have pizza made at home, Steve prides himself on making "the best". You may recall he's like this with toasted cheese sandwiches too (not to be confused with cheese on toast) - a certain one-time backpacker could confirm this.

Over the years, Steve has not only perfected the topping side of things and settled on a crackingly good fresh dough base, he has also perfected the now obligatory pizza-making theme music. I don't know the name of this tune (sadly, I even googled "pizza music" but I couldn't find it, strangely enough), suffice to say it is hummed like this:

S: *with much gusto and sudden over-abundant masculinity* Yut da-dut dah-dut dah-dahh, de-yut da-duddilly dahh.....

The contrast of this with the accompanying hand actions is so funny, when the hand actions involve the intricately delicate placement of chicken, pineapple, little champignon mushrooms and the likes.

If only he'd try to throw the stiff, pre-made pizza base in the air and pummel it unnecessarily as well, then I might just mistake him for authentic Italian after all.

28w6d scan...

Weight: 1562g (Ella was 1581 @ 30wks )
BPD = 7.45cm (29w2d equivalent)
HC = 26.63cm (29w1d equivalent)
AC = 26.95 (30w5d equivalent)
FL = 5.7cm (30w0d equivalent)
Peace of mind: priceless

It's the hard knock life .... for dogs

'Stead of couches, they get beds...
'Stead of inside, they're out instead
It's the hard knock life.




Miss Hannigan, signing off.

Happy annivers'ry, baby, Got you on mah mi-hind

Love a bit of Dragon in the morning.

It's our seventh anniversary today. Can't say we're wowing it up. I'm currently trying reverently not to poke the bear.... he's in bed and I want scrambled eggs with tomato on toast at a local cafe who does them to perfection. That, and we have a $5 shopper docket voucher - buy one main, get one for 5 bucks! We're nothing if not classy and bargain-hunters all rolled into one.

This was us seven loooooong years ago:


How groomed we were. How innocent and young we looked. How skinny. And........ blonde.

This is what seven years of marriage, six of which we've been trying for a family who'll actually stay and play, can do to you:

And I cannot believe it, but I have never, not once in all these years, been pregnant on any of our anniversaries. So this one is extra special. Here's us last night, at 28 weeks:
And for good measure, and also because I'm feeling generous with the photos today, I give you:

Steve's view of the world (and me):
Is it me, or does it look like he sees things through a fish-eye lens from his height??

Happy anniversary, baby.

Can you just do something for me?

Straighten your thumb and first four fingers. Keeping them straight, bring the tips of your fingers in together, like a pinch.

That's the only way I can liken the image on the ultrasound this afternoon as Dr Luffley and I giggled at Lolly with all four limbs over head. One minute I was looking straight in the face of this beautiful little baby, with arms and fists beside ever-chubbying cheeks. The next minute, the hands stretched lazily above Lolly's head and a foot appeared between both fists.

And I am cringeing all over again when, as we were marvelling at "how did both those legs get....over....there", I quipped "I used to be able to do that." Oh the shame of having a mouth that speaks before the brain thinks.

Nothing music can't fix

The wheels fell off my little red wagon yesterday.

With the wise words of some friends I am still overwhelmed at being blessed to have, a phone call to Dad and some teasing of Pepper and Jazz (photo evidence below), I felt much better by the time Steve came home.

Issues surrounding the inability of people in my life to just leave me be, to have these moments without having to justify why. Of assuming that my growing Lollybelly does not signal the end of my grief.... but rather, in some bizarre respects, enhances or spotlights it.

I am so exhausted from trying to point these things out to too many people who should know how to support us better, but who don't. I'm tired of excusing them when they're so seemingly intent on not letting me go at my own pace. Steve and I discussed last night that I'm allowing the actions of so few overshadow the good, decent, easy relationships we have with so many more. Our dinner guests on Saturday night, for a perfect example. Wonderful and easy to be around. At the end of the night when we'd all dispersed to different areas of the house to chill out, one of them leaned in to me and in a rare moment of seriousness (because he's a blessed dag) enquired "Now.... are we going to need to watch out for you, all hormones and jokes aside?" I nearly collapsed on him there and then and said "Take it all away now! In a tip truck. Please!" Instead, composed, I thanked him profusely and said "Yes please, all three of us." It's such a relief to know that, as he and his wife said, we don't have to do or explain anything. We simply have to see them. They'll take care of the rest. I know that. And it's such a relief, I can't even explain how much.

Back to yesterday, though, I was also starting to be gripped from the inside out with fear that something may well go wrong this time too, which has been pointed out to me on several occasions is the fear of "all expectant mothers". But, see, it's that last little three letter word which widens the chasm between me (and grieving mothers like me) and other expectant mothers - not "all" of us at all. That little word... "too"... it changes everything. It means as well. It means what if something happens this time AS WELL. And it hurts to have it said to me that I am going through what any other mother goes through. I'm not trying to be precious here. I'm stating a fact, how I feel. It's akin to when I was told that "all mothers are sad on their child's first birthday, particularly their first child." Erm.... except I didn't think I needed to point out to this person the blatantly obvious fact that, uh, my child wasn't here for her first birthday. I was infuriated that I was so invalidated by that one flippant, off-the-cuff remark and found it very difficult to find something within myself to forgive the person for being so way off the mark.

After talking to Dad, I felt much better. Dad's a very logical man. He's a Doctor of Civil Engineering, a title which means little to me in terms of understanding what he does but makes me burst with pride that he's someone who's made a huge dint in his industry and is known in his field worldwide. Not necessarily liked by all, but respected for his intelligence and ability to put forth a point nonetheless. I inherited from him my deep sense of moral justice. Unfortunately, I also inherited from the other side of the family a crazy self-victimisation technique. I like to call it chatterbox brain.

My chatterbox brain just would not SHUT UP yesterday until Dad rationalised away my proclamations. He didn't patronise, he never once said I was being unreasonable or silly. Quite the contrary, he masterfully Jedi-mind-tricked me to calmness and laughter by agreeing with me and saying lots of "yes of courses" and "mmm I can't imagines" in the most tender tone. And he talked me through what we DO know: that by now with all the monitoring I've been having, an unbalanced translocation of mystery is off the cards - 99.5% certainty of that - the heart makeup appears to be perfect, growth rates are above par...... and that all these other things I'm conjuring up that "could" happen, well, as he said "Why would you want to add in more risk factors when you've dodged the ones that are most likely for you?"

He's right. It was as if I dropped the heavy cloak I'd been struggling to keep up round my shoulders. I immediately felt lighter. And cried huge sobs of relief that I have these intelligent people in my life to carry me this last little part.

So I celebrate this morning with a good dose of loud iTunes random plays from our extensive and diverse mix. I just finished I Go To Rio and am now rawkin' to Trick Me by Kelis. Is that wrong? Oh, next we have Everyone Deserves Music by dear young Michael Franti. Gotta go. Jig to dance.

Mere milliseconds before the nuclear bomb hit

Steve looks around for the blame hound.

The Barter System

K: I want a cheese slice

S: *trudges off and returns triumphantly*

S: *hands cheese slice over between index and middle finger with an air of 'breadwinner doling out money to the trophy wife'* Git yourself something nice.

K: Ta... D'you think in the history of time, they ever paid for goods or services with cheese?

S: Yeah, and what if they didn't have change? "I'm sorry, do you have anything smaller?" *nibbles cheese slice down to smaller denomination to pay for invisible item*

Yep our pets' heads definitely fell off today

Every so often, usually the third time in a day when the shit hits the fan / straw breaks the camel's back / dumb stuff happens, Steve and I will turn to each other and quote that piss-funny line from Dumb And Dumber - Jim Carrey's character turns to his friend, at the end of a rather arduous day and few moments when they don't know which way is up, and he says in a tension-filled voice barely holding it together, "Our pets' heads are falling off!!!!" and points in the direction of the cage containing their budgie, whose head has indeed "fallen off" (cos it was ripped off by the Gas Man... oh... have I watched it too many times?).

So. Today. This happened to me:

• At around 11.30 this morning, after I worked on Easter Monday to catch up on some work and finally feeling all caught up and in control today for the first time in months, the power went out.
The guy who came to mow the public reserve in our court mowed over the electrical box at the top of the street. Why? Because he "thought it wasn't connected up". Well, Dick'ead, it doesn't mean you need to go near it, let alone mow right the fuck over it!!!!!

• Decided I should get out of the house and go get some refunds from little Johnnie, c/o Medicare. So when I get there, why is it so packed? The carpark, I mean. I saw one of those Parents With Prams spaces, empty, going begging. But gee, I know there are some angry young "ladies" out there who would be haughty enough - even in my bedraggled, lazy-limp, hobbling state - who would take issue with me, and I was in no mood to foight to the death. Or maybe I was..... *pauses with finger on chin*
So instead, I parked in, oh, just the FURTHEST PARK from the door!

• I had to get petrol at the most expensive I have ever seen it in my State: $1.39L, people! I mean, WTF??

• When I pulled up at the pump, I stopped the car, did my usual new "thing" which was slide the seat back and manouver myself out the door with both legs together to try and minimise contributing to this stupid hip and symphisis pubis dickis idiotis dysplasia I've got happening. I did all this with a fair bit of effort, and in wind gusts of bloody a bazillion knots (ok, I'm getting silly now), only to find that I had parked at the opposite side to the petrol tank. RAAAAAAHHHH!

• I was gone for two hours and came back to be told by a neighbour that we shouldn't "expect power to be returned til sometime this afternoon."
And so I rested. I slept. I pruned. I baked a cake. Sounds nice, doesn't it? Except, it was vewy vewy qwiet all day. I had a lot of things I needed to do that involved electricity. But I am proud of myself - my idle mind didn't eat ONE square of that chocolate, sitting over there.

• Power only came back on at 5.30. That's 5.30 PM, dear reader.

So, once again, we usually claim heads-off-pets when several shitty things happen in a minimal time frame. I believe I can declare our pets' heads are indeed falling off. For sure.

Sing along!

"One of these paws is not like the oth-errr..."

Steve's pipe dream venture

"If I started a dog grooming salon, I'd call it Ruffcuts."
"Would you?"
"Yeah. And I'd make everyone say it like this - *gravelly Muttley-type voice* Rrrrrruffcuts."
"And you would make the staff say it like that when they answered the phone?"
"Yeah."
"And customers?"
"Yeah. If they say it they get 10% off."

He's reeeeeeeally thought alot about this....

Music and light

I've chosen The Music I'm going to say was "current" the day/year Lolly was born (you know that section in the obligatory Birth Book/First Year diary thing) and will buy the album to give to Lolly.

I am not ashamed to say I am thoroughly besotted with Corinne Bailey Rae. Girl, put your records on. Indeed. Her whole album is just lovely. Call Me When You Get This, Like A Star, Butterfly.... what gorgeous, gorgeous songs! And of course, the aforementioned Put Your Records On, well... we rock out to that daily, me and Lolly (cos Lolly has no choice). I don't think I could ever tire of it (or crying happily to it, well maybe once the hormones settle I won't cry anymore... hnnngh).

Hey, it's better than comemmorating the occasion with one of the real popular current songs... hmmm, let's seeee, we've got Wasabi by Lee Harding (erm, let me think, NOPE), an insipid Delta Goodrem song (ahhh, no) or anything by The Sugababez or Pussycat Dolls (are they still pumping them out?).

Melancholy reflective day

I just read of a mum who lost her baby girl in her womb at 36 weeks 4 days. My heart is bleeding for this young woman who I'll never lay eyes on and my eyes are crying tears I don't want to share with her.

I recall my heart being soooooooo, so, so heavy it physically hurt. If I had ONE wish, and I mean this, it would be that no mother, no father, would ever have to experience that sheer unbelievable tragedy - incomprehensible grief.

She wrote so beautifully, so honestly, and her words echoed how I have felt.... A mother-daughter relationship cut short. A life beginning and all the preparations you make within yourself to save a place in your home and in your heart for your little girl. Everything I started to open myself up to - I've never been particularly girly. I was a kick-around kind of kid, not delicate or fragile either in spirit or physique. But I softened. I softened so, so much. I started wearing pink even when I was carrying Ellanor (unheard of for me) because I found it comforted me and I felt so nurtured. I felt like I was already nurturing her. I wanted to continue developing my newfound softness - I always had it, I've always been gentle, but hid it so far down for fear of being hurt or pointed and laughed at or considered weak.... Ella catalysed the awakening of those innate feelings.

And then I couldn't grow them. Because she was suddenly not here. And I was left wiiiide open, newly soft and gracious and gentle. And so bereft.

This girl's story has really affected me. I've seen her thread sitting there and to be honest, I haven't been able to go in and read it. I have said before and will say here again: mothers who deliver their children born still have lived my nightmare. It leaves me cold. And they are left to tread with their arms empty and their hearts in shreds. Slowly as everything shifts and lifts, some lucky ones find focus and meaning and reason - I am one of the very lucky ones, my daughter not only had a purpose but she almost went so far as to leave written instructions, literally (I mean, have any of you read the Earth Angel story on her website? That's no accident, that story).... cheeky little angel - but I wonder how the others cope. The ones who for years are desperate for peace, just searching. But nothing, NOTHING, anything anyone says will ever give them that. Especially not in the beginning.

So I sit here with a contented little new life doing Richard Simmons exercises in my belly. I think of that mother who recently had the worst realisation of her life: in one swift moment, her life was forever changed, she was forever changed - even when she's happy in months and years to come, there's not anything, not another child, not all the material riches in the world, can quite fill the void. A mother who had borne a stillborn baby boy at 39 weeks told me, the day Ella died (she was my midwife and I was shocked to discover this person I had been drawn to all along since Ella's birth and in the month before she died, had been carrying this secret, and why would she divulge it of course... and she worked with babies for a calling, no less), that I was never going to be the same again. It stuck in my gut like I'd been knifed with a dagger. Along with everything else we had just lost, we had also lost ourselves as we knew "us". The grieving for who you were is something no one really realises is also happening for the parents, as it is overshadowed by the overwhelming impact of the baby's death.

It goes without saying, then, that even when things settle and the first months/years are lived through and coping goes back to being second nature rather than the thing that gets you through hour by hour til you can just sleep again and make it all go away, it astounds me that there are still some people who are of the belief that new life dissolves what has gone before. That the baby I grieved for and the me I grieved for are now "behind me". I vehemently refute this projected assumption, it is such a crime of compassion (can you tell this is a current hot topic in our house due to recent circumstances?).

And now I look forward while constantly casting a despairing glance back. At opportunities lost, at experiences I had to leave behind two years ago, but that are all converging in one big heap now; the closer we get to happiness in this never-ending quest to nurture our healthy, growing family, the alternately further I get from her. My girl.

She's not lost. But sometimes I am.

Urrgh. Do you STILL live here?

Despite Pepper trying hard to imagine Jazz away (like my try-as-I-might imagining into existence of the chunky kit-kat, which didn't work by the way, so Dr Phil is WRONG), she is still here. She is still begging for a play, morning, evening, dead of night, just about anytime when little old lady doggies want their naps. For extreme close-up, click on the photos to view maximum pissed-off effect....

You want my ball, you know you want iiiiit.....

I don't want your frigging ball *paw smackdown*

Oh. Yes. Ok, you got me. I do want it. Grrr, grrr, big pointy teeth...
I'm biting your leg. I mean it *yawn*

See? You do want it!!! Ha-ha, but I have it.... I said.... you DO want it *poke poke*
Has she gone yet? I'm not looking at her so therefore she doesn't exist. Right?

Urp, nope, there she is.
Ha-haaaa, you can't resist me. I am Jazzeeee!!!

Listen here, you little shit, you think you're cute enough to compete with that bump she's got growing there? There's nothing can outdo or outcute that. So sleep tight, buttercup, and lap it up because when she pops, you're going to be not-so-cute Jazzy and banned from any inside craziness. They'll probably ban you from inside altogether because you're too loud and erratic.

I am such a well-behaved, good inside girl.... or...
maybe if I practice at least......

My work here is done.

Happy Birthday to Steeeeve!

Insolence!

See what we have to put up with? If you don't play ball on command, you get barked at.

Lolly Takes A Trip To The Hospital

I'm still not convinced that it's not wind (which, when it eventually comes to the light of day, will flutter those flags in Belgium again), but I have had a night full of regular, scarily intense contractions.

I noticed discomfort when talking to a friend on the phone - we both got distracted because we heard The Biggest Loser coming on....... - and as soon as I finished talking with her, BANG! the first one hit. Then like clockwork, the next just 2 minutes later. Steve and I discussed, rather wearily, what to do and decided to ride it out for another half hour before paging Dr Luffley.

And for the next half hour, along they came, every 2-3 minutes.

When I paged him, my doctor rang back and didn't even let me finish telling him that I thought it might be Simon (if anyone knows South Park, they'll get the reference to Simon, Mr and Mrs Hanky's son....born with a nut in his head....). He told me to get straight to the Delivery Ward. Dammit, I was on day 2 of my hair washing "regime" as well, so old greasy-ball me was taken to spend an uncomfortable night in hospital being poked, prodded, observed and mostly basically left to cope through pretty intense and erractically timed contractions.

To cut a long story short, everything is still closed/in its right place/stored in overhead lockers and in fact, our little Lolly goes to the top of the class once again for measuring a none-too-shabby 25 weeks 3 days today (by my dates, I'm only 24 weeks 4 days) and an impressive "portly" 800g. Apparently a 28 weeker is around 1kg, so we're more than ahead of target. This kid will be a Grade 1 equivalent and doing long division by the time T-Zero comes around.

I cannot believe I dodged this bullet. I vowed when I was lying in there overnight that if I got out of this one unscathed and got to come home, both of us all intact and still attached to each other, that I would be making some changes in my thoughts. This episode has come off the back of some news that yesterday rocked my world, more due to the audacity of the person who divulged and the way in which it was handled (I believe the term is "divide and conquer"?), as is the pattern of this person to make me privy to information that I don't need to know and always without the safety net of telling me when I am with my husband - which, given the family connection, would make far more sense.

And today, strangely, I have a sense of calm and direction and focus. This news no longer concerns me. I realise I try and fit into "the norm" of the fertile/conception world, outside of my large supportive circle, and I just figured out that I don't need to. Special is good, different is better. I know what I have to do, I know what and who is important to me and to whom I am important. Another test I do believe, and we've passed I reckon.

Oh, and never one to not share a good looking happy snap, CHECK the gorgeous little button nose on this:

Just me again

Here's us at 24 weeks.

Owwwwch.... I can hear the skin stretching from here.

And now, a word from our sponsors

In yet another unashamedly lazy blog entry, I give you this and let someone else do all the work:

Store Wars Pure genius to behold.

And may the force be with you.

Happy Easter

T minus 14 weeks...

I came to a realisation a few weeks ago.

I already know how early labour goes. If it happens again, and heaven forbid it should, I know I can live through it and what to expect. I know the drill in the NICU, awful as it is, and that I will make as much of it (again) as I did before. If this is to be this baby's experience, then Lolly and no one else will choose the timing of when labour comes, according to Lolly's life map.

I've really been freed by this and look much further ahead as I begin to prepare. Once I realised that I was fearing a repeat of something I've already survived, I was able to focus more on just assuming what every other lucky expectant mother does: that her baby will be born safe, at term.

So that is my aim and my focus now. 38 weeks, that's my goal for Lolly. I won't go over that, this has already been agreed with Dr Luffley. He expects to induce me but I have other plans if we've made it that far - 'erbs, baby... 'erbs!

It's really helped calm me - I'm not being unrealistic I don't think. I am fully aware that the biggest risk for me going into preterm labour is my past history; the fact that it's happened to me before. Dr Luffley told me that. Whilst I can't control when it happens, I can control when I want to think of it happening... if you get what I mean? So I am choosing to assume that Lolly will come at term, or certainly much closer to it than Big Sister did!

And no. My doctor's surname is not Luffley.

"What we fear, we create"

Sooooo, on this theory, does this mean if I work really hard at fearing a life-size Chunky Kit Kat, it will manifest before me?

I'm working on it. Will report back later.

To Be And To Have

I have found it. The movie that explains better than I could say what I was trying to just a few days ago here.

Very basically, To Be And To Have is an English-subtitled documentary centred around a one-room school in rural France, the teacher and his young pupils ranging in age from 4-11. And.... just bliss to watch. Beautiful, beautiful film which made me laugh and cry. And cry. And cry a little bit more because it was so touching and fascinating.

If you watch it (it's been out in video stores for about a year) and you don't get it, then I'm afraid you don't "get" me.

Adrenalin rush

My (sad) version of extreme head-rush edge-of-your-seat excitement?

Watch Rove Live with the teletext function on. Oh my God, I think I'm having palpitations. They all talk. So. Fast. On there. The poor stressed out little monkey who's sitting there at the keyboard trying to keep up with the comedians all sparring with each other.... Surely that gig is THE shortest straw of the week in the Teletext Control Room. How anyone could type dictation that fast for a whole hour is beyond me. I'm literally hyperventilating over it.

Had to ask Steve to turn it off after only 10 minutes of this agony. His idea of fun is watching them stuff up and get slowly but surely further behind and really start to fuck up all the conversations, but it's just way too stressful for a sensitive little petal like me *raises eyes demurely*

Lamination of the Nation

I nagged for about a week.

"They can't just be any old chocolate stinking lamingtons. They must be pink." If it is possible to crave a colour, I am craving pink things, despite cursing them to damnation at any other time in my life.

So finally, he goes to get them late last night after coming home from another day of print-and-printer-related antics (he works at a printing/design company and heads the art and production departments). The lamington was pure bliss. Pink heaven on a spongey softbed of, well, not so much goodness as evil indulgence.

And just now, after I advised him of a minor hump in my otherwise ordinary day, he called me a "poor girl" and suggested I have a "raspberry lamination". I knew what he meant.

My poor Stevie works so hard.