Archive | February, 2011

The road trip that wasn’t

27 Feb

Because I love my new iPhone, I’m going to dedicate this post to a bunch of useless photos I took on what was supposed to be our road trip to Canberra.

After bitching and moaning for a whole week about having to drive what would be my hungover husband to our nation’s capital, I got up early Sunday morning, donned my special driving hat, a bag full of snacks and my best smile, and set off to find said husband for said road trip.

After a number of wrong turns (thanks, GPS!) The Boy finally told me just to pull the damn car over so he could find me on foot. That being done, we set off. One short McDonalds stop later and all of a sudden my brand new car decided it was cactus and stopped in the middle of the road. Just like that. Oh, it revved. But it wouldn’t go. Reversing was fine, but fat lot of good that was going to do us for the three hour drive south.

Feeling slightly guilty that I may have wished the car broken we finally called the fix-it guy, who couldn’t fix it. After much nodding between Fix-it Guy and The Boy, it was decided that the car had ‘a computer problem’. This seemed to me like a bit of a bullshit explanation but by this point I’d downed two bottles of water and was getting rather desperate with Pork Chop stomping on my bladder. So I was more than happy to nod and agree if it meant we’d get somewhere (with a toilet) sooner.

Fix-it Guy called Tow Man, who thankfully rushed over because Fix-it Guy was nice enough to point out that I was pregnant and not likely to last much longer. Tow Man was super nice and offered to take us, with our lemon of a car, back to the dealership. Which suited me just fine because new car dealers always have really nice toilets. And, since this looked to be the extent of our road-trip, I took lots of photos because a) I love my iPhone and b) ‘the car broke down’ sounds like a totally lame excuse for not turning up to Canberra as expected when everyone knew The Boy had been oggling boobs to a bucks night the night before.

So, for your viewing pleasure, here’s some of the delightful scenery somewhere off the M5 in suburban Sydney.


No screaming for this icecream

25 Feb

OK I can’t resist re-posting this. Breast milk icecream? Really? Did we need to go there?

I’ve heard some freaky shit about breast milk since becoming pregnant. I’m all for donating extra milk to premmie kids, I’d even consider using it myself if Henry arrived early, though I don’t know how keen I’d be nor whether I’d go out of my way to find out how to donate extra and milk myself for that purpose (I often have good intentions, but on the whole I’m somewhat apathetic). I’ve even heard about weird breast milk fetishes, and people who seek out buying the stuff online for its supposed health benefits.

But icecream?

What gets me is that it’s being marketed as ‘pure, organic, free-range and totally natural.’ I’m sorry, but if you’re going to argue that, then every woman you’re buying this milk from had better be on a strictly organic diet. And have never had inhaled fly spray, paint fumes, had her hair permed, her nails done, taken antibiotics, smoked, drunk alcohol or done drugs (you’ll be pleased to know that donating mothers are screened with a blood text). Because that’s what it takes to be truly organic.

As for ‘natural’, I’m calling blanket bullshit on this word. Define ‘natural’ for me. Go on. Cows milk not natural enough for you? Nature gave you a cow, you milked it. Maybe ‘natural’ is to do with the pasturisation milk goes through in this country. Call me silly, but I kinda like knowing my milk comes bacteria free. TB? No thanks! And don’t start banging on about cows on hormones – that’s prohibited in Australia.

Free range – I’ll pay that, but only if we know these women are living in lovely houses, big enough for their needs, and get some fresh air and exercise every day. But I’m not convinced this is the case, since those that are most likely to respond to the ad are probably quite keen to welcome the ‘extra cash’ that’s promised.

But hey, I’ll give them points for the crazy-as-shit name – ‘Baby Gaga’ – and it is good to know that should I decide not to go back to work I can sit at home with a pump and a bottle and start raking in the dough.

This… is Dick

25 Feb

I should have known from the first geriatric wobble that Dick* was going to be a problem. Up until Dick, my working life was positively pleasant. I work in a quiet office, with a handful of generally quite pleasant ladies, but when Dick arrived it was like throwing a fox in with the chickens – feathers were ruffled and shit started to fly.

Take away the fact that he has a nasty habit of leering at my boobs given the slightest opportunity, Dick is highly incompetent. He’s been a volunteer since around 2,000 BC and in that time he’s managed to piss off more staff members than my organisation has had the opportunity to hire, all the while doing what amounts to bugger all. Yet we persist in letting him in the door. Partly because volunteers – even bad ones – are hard to come by, but mostly because Dick has a network of equally pompous and incompetent cronies friends who we have to keep happy.

While I’d like nothing more than to change his building security code – which really isn’t all that necessary since I usually have to let him in after hearing him fumbling around getting his code wrong at least five times every morning – I do realise that an unhappy Dick is a PR nightmare. An unhappy Dick is not good for donations and like an STD, Dick’s negative gossip would spread far and wide if we dared remove the condom of false flattery, even just the once. I get it, but I don’t have to like it.

So with a big event on the horizon, I’m now stuck with a daily dose of Dick and I’m none to happy about it. Who would have thought I’d ever say that?? In fact, it’s gotten so bad that I’ve actually grown to hate Dick. The only saving grace is that his natural name lends itself perfectly to his character, and making fun of it is about the only solace me and my equally perved upon colleagues get each day.

Anyway, today – thankfully – turned out to be a Dick free day. You see, sometimes our boss realises that by Friday we’re all too tired to suck up to Dick, and pries him out of the office for an hour or two, most likely for his own protection. So today, I have time to think. And while there’s not a lot going on in that mush for brains I now have, there’s a few ideas brewing that I’m getting pretty excited about.

The first is that next week I start a graphic design course! Exciting! In fact, I was so excited that I started looking around at fancy WordPress themes that I could customise with my fancy new design skills, until I realised that I was using the tightarse version of WP that doesn’t allow for custom themes. Then it all got a bit too hard for a Friday lunchtime, but I figure in time you’ll see a cool new theme on here that has been designed by yours truly!

The second is that I’m super nervous for The Boy who is sitting the first of his primary examinations today. Once he passes all eight exams, he’ll be a ‘boss’ which is, I think, a super cool title. As in, ‘what do you do?’, ‘I’m a boss…. what do you do’. Of course he’ll say this in his scrubs, all ER like – which by the way I LOVED when I was a kid. Mmm… Dr Carter the ED intern? Totally knew I was going to marry him and have his babies one day.

This brings me to my third thought of the day, which is that I am mortified my mother actually KNEW about that primary school crush I had on one of my teachers. I found it mentioned in a letter she wrote to my gramps 20 years ago, and might I add that at least I had good taste because in that same letter, mother, you also admitted he was super cute. I can’t exactly remember who it was, but from memory he patched up my knee one day after I’d scraped it falling over. Clearly I’ve not outgrown my ‘knight-in-shining-armour’ phase.

The final thought of the day is an interesting one that The Boy bought up last night. He wondered whether I worked as hard now as I did before I was pregnant. I’ll be honest here, like I was last night, and the answer is a resounding no. I can definitely confirm that my mind wanders a lot more, I take more breaks, I’m slower, less efficient, and all around less engaged than I was six months ago. And it’s not as though I don’t try – it’s more that now I just don’t care, and after a few hours of sitting at my desk I’m more than ready for a nap which usually makes the latter half of my day decidedly unproductive. Henry kicking me all the time is also pretty distracting, in a really good way.

So, should I be paid less? Probably. But the sad fact remains that as a woman, I already am being paid less than my male counterparts. For all Australia argues that this isn’t the case, talk to any chic you know and you’ll soon see that she’s earning less FOR THE SAME WORK as a man in the same role. Part of it comes down to simple discrimination – largely because employers realise that women of a reproductive age are going to take time off to start a family, and part of it is because women generally suck at asking for what they’re worth.

There are a lot of other complex factors that come into play here, none of which I’m going into because I’m not about to have a big whinge about being undervalued because I have a vagina. I’m just happy to point out that yes, I am not as productive pregnant (as I suspect a lot of women aren’t) but for me that’s part of the risk you take when you employ a lady. And if you then think employing women is a bad idea, you should probably go out and buy a copy of Half the Sky, read it, and then try to argue that the world was a better place when women stayed at home.

*His real name

Admission #2

22 Feb

Two hospital admissions in a little over two weeks… that’s got to be some sort of record, right? This time, rather than wetting myself (which I actually did just a little, in between bouts of vomit), I managed to plaster my dear brother’s toilet in all sorts of chunks and smells while visiting my family for the weekend. No-one else was sick, unless you count the dry retching episode my brother inevitably experienced as he cleaned up after me, so I’ve no idea what caused it. But if rinsing out a bucket of vomit isn’t brotherly love, I don’t know what is.

Anyway, after freaking out that I’d actually vomited up Henry, or squished him to a pulp with all the cramping, we decided that the best thing to do would be to organise a family trip to the local hospital. Mum got to see Henry on an ultrasound which was super cool for her and I got a big fat bag of fluids and some drugs that knocked me out for a few hours. My sister-in-law drove us which was a super smart move on her part as it meant she missed most of the cleanup. And then, $170 later I was discharge with a mighty big bruise that makes me look like a pregnant intravenous drug user. Oh, and a handful of codeine to complete the picture.

Not exactly the trip home I was hoping for.

But what I found most amusing about this whole episode was that the doctor barely spoke to me. He kept on directing all his instructions to my mum. I’m not sure why – perhaps I looked especially incompetent that day (I did, after all, turn up with splotches of vomit all over me). While I tried my best to appear attentive and look capable of following highly complex instructions such as ‘drink some gatorade when you get home’, clearly I was channeling stupid because lovely though he was, this doctor wasn’t trusting me with a paper cup, let alone a blister pack of pain killers. Mind you, considering the fact that I found a roll of toilet paper in the fridge the other day, perhaps this was for the best.

All in all it was a good trip home. A bit more eventful than I’d bargained for but I got hugs from my mum, laughed with my brothers, and started getting my butt kicked by my sister-in-law playing Words with Friends. I even came home with a bag full of home-grown garlic and a bunch of now suspiciously fragrant baby stuff.

And now, I’m back at work. I’ve only got nine more weeks of full-time work left, and about nine months worth of work to do in that time – more if I continue to procrastinate on here. More importantly, there are only 13 weeks left until I go on maternity leave, 17 weeks before Henry arrives… and 20 weeks ’til the final Harry Potter movie! Hurrah! Let the countdowns begin!

Do my boobs look big in this?

18 Feb

I’d take a photo but… oh stuff it, I’ll take a photo.

Excuse the crazy hair and lack of makeup – it’s been a long week. What I want you to look at (which I mostly cropped out of the shot by the looks of it) is the girls. Check ’em out! Thanks to another recent growth spurt, I’m now a c-cup. *Sniff* I couldn’t be more proud.

Anyway, it wasn’t me that noticed the overnight sprouting. I thought The Boy was looking mighty happy last night, and sure enough when I turned up to work this morning one of my co-workers greeted me with a ‘holy hell, your boobs ARE bigger!’ Talk about an awesome Friday! She then proceeded to tell me how awful it’ll be in a couple of years when they were slapping against my thighs, but I chose to start tuning out at that point.

Right now, I’ve got curves. And in all the good places. Sure, I can no longer see my feet or haul myself out of the sofa without grunting… but from the waist up it’s pure awesomeness.

Ready for parenthood?

17 Feb

Hardly. After nearly having to excuse ourselves from Church last night following the hilarious discovery that the opening hymn was written by one Horatio Bonar (get it, bon-ar?)* I’m wondering how prepared we really are for the responsibilities of raising a human. Because, let’s face it – we still find fart jokes funny and our idea of a great nights’ entertainment is flipping through self-published books on and laughing at photos of dogs in stupid hats. Not exactly what you’d define as mature, adult behaviour.

But hey, you gotta laugh sometime, right?

Anyway, while waiting for my shiny new iPhone to arrive in the mail yesterday, I stuffed around on the interwebs and picked up a heap of trivial knowledge that I have no hope of retaining now I have placenta brain. I also had a horrid day-dream of being covered in stretch marks, had a small cry and vomit (apparently second trimester morning sickness is a reality for Chunder Girl), oh, and I enrolled in a graphic design course. Because, you know, I’m going to have so much free time now I’m a stay at home mum. That, and I’m totally over my incapacity to design cool looking stuff.

So! News for the week:

1. I decided that parenthood was going to be a breeze and enrolled in a full-time graphic design course.

2. I spent most of my working week looking up cool new iPhone photo apps and trying to set up my Words with Friends account.

3. I spent what little remained of my working week playing around with said iPhone apps.

4. I started to waddle.

5. I had a cry, a vomit, and a killer case of back pain that almost made me rush back to the hospital to be comforted by my lovely, if now somewhat slightly frustrated, OB.

6. I realised that no matter how old you are, people with funny surnames… have funny surnames.

*It didn’t help that the closing him was composed by a Mr. Hoare.

Another day like that

15 Feb

Today is another one of those days. The type of day that’s filled with grey skies, soft drizzle, and an overwhelming desire to be at home, napping under a granny blanket.

So it took a lot of effort to get up this morning, and not just because The Boy practically has to roll me out of bed these days. I tried to convince him that today would make a pretty decent mental health day for both of us, but got no joy. In fact he was positively sprightly this morning, getting up well before he needed to, to get some study done before work. Kudos to him for beating the morning monster. I even scored a man-made cup of tea out of it.

Anyway, after a lovely night last night, (and a lovely cup of tea this morning) I find myself at work again today, despite feeling like I really should be curled up somewhere fast asleep. Or knitting that baby blanket. Or doing something much more worthwhile than sitting at my desk getting teary over the obituary I have to write for some poor dead Rotarian I’ve never even met. Like watching Henry kick my stomach hard enough to startle the people sitting next to me on the train.

But no, I’m at work, counting down the days until I go on leave (only 10 weeks to go!), and planning what I’m going to do with all that spare time I’ll have. Let me assure you the list is long, and I’m super glad Henry is arriving in winter so I have the perfect excuse to stay holed up in our cozy little home making adorable teeny things between naps. Because that’s what life is going to be like with a newborn – excursions to the museum, the library, the park, all rugged up in mum’s knitted blankets and scarfs. Eating home-baked banana bread and sipping tea from a thermos under blue skies that are speckled with fluffy white clouds on green, green grass that smells like wet dirt.

As for the nappies and the crying and the vomiting and the tiredness, I’m pretty sure that shit happens to other people. I’ll let you know how it goes. Right now, I need a little fantasy, especially since I had my first Braxton Hicks contraction this morning and m*ther f*cker if that’s any indication of what labour is going to be like, I’m totally screwed. I mean, I can feel when I ovulate. I can feel the ovary releasing the egg. It hurts. I have the world’s most painful periods. I felt Henry moving around pretty early, so you can be sure the nerves I have in there are pretty well-developed. And if so, labour is going to be one almighty bitch. Totally starting to re-think that all natural birth plan.

So, here’s to the countdown to Easter. When I finish work, enjoy one last dirty weekend with The Boy, and settle into enjoying the last remnants of autumn and the arrival of our little boy. Can’t wait.


14 Feb

I swear, the only thing that is getting me through work today is the memory of my beautiful husband, sleepy in bed this morning, wishing me all the love in the world. That, and the constant kicks I’ve been getting from my beautiful little boy who I can only hope will grow up to be just like his Daddy. Unfortunately the vibe at work is a little less love filled, but being pregnant happens to make me not give a damn that my Tim Tams are going uneaten because everyone’s too keen on that second helping of Annoying to go with their Bitch sandwich. More chocolate goodness for me I say!

Anyway, since I’m pregnant and glowing and full of happy hormones and all that, I find it a lovely co-incidence to come across this blog post today from Sluiter Nation that perfectly describes both the man that I’m married to, the son I hope to create, and the mother I want to become. It’s a sappy day, for sappy sentiments, and Katie sums it up beautifully so go on, click through, and have a read.

As for other random news, I thoroughly enjoyed my weekend. I contemplated finishing a quilt for baby William (a big step in the right direction, even if I didn’t actually finish it), started sewing in all the lose ends for Henry’s quilt that I started making when The Boy were busy making him, and started a new baby blanket out of a couple of balls of navy wool that I found in The Boy’s study. Upon being questioned about said balls of wool, The Boy explained that he once expressed a desire to know how to knit, so his American aunt sent him some needless and yarn, along with a card that not-so-subtly suggested he may be batting for the other team. Thankfully I found the balls in an almost-virgin state, and they’re now being put to good use.

I also went to the local fabric store to pick up a gorgeous navy polka-dot cotton, and a cute pink and green flowered fabric that I plan on making into a couple of dresses that should, with tights, help see me through the winter. All for $30! And thank you Meet Me At Mikes for the totally adorable and, most importantly, idiot proof pattern!!

To help make the weekend complete, it rained and rained, I made french toast with berries for The Boy and The Bump, had a bath, cleaned the house, and indulged in a few too many cups of chai tea. Plus, Henry put on quite a spectacular show trying to show my belly button who’s boss. And I loved every second of it.

Today, I’d like nothing more than to be at home with my man, snuggled in bed, watching the rain come down. Sadly, I’m at work and walked into quite the shit-storm this morning that had the potential to bring me down until I realised:

  1. I’m married to a totally awesome guy
  2. I’m pregnant and about to become a mum to a totally awesome little boy
  3. I have a lovable fur-baby who, despite bringing me the odd crawly gift and ripping the crap out of our house, really is quite cute
  4. I’m spending the weekend in Tassie with my totally awesome family
  5. I have good health, beautiful friends, and endless opportunities…anything beyond that is a totally worthless first world concern.

If I couldn’t love a life like that there’d something seriously wrong with me. And if it weren’t enough, I’m getting a new iPhone this week… and really, everyone knows how much happiness a new iPhone can bring!

My little companion

9 Feb

One of the coolest things I’ve felt during this whole pregnancy is a complete lack of loneliness. Normally, I’d rather rip out my toenails before leaving the house on my own, unless it’s to go somewhere or do something I’ve done a dozen times before. Like grocery shopping. And even then some days I’m convinced that all the check-out staff talk about me once I’m gone.


Since finding out about the bun in the oven I’m feeling super relaxed about doing new things. Mostly because now, even if I find myself standing like a loser in the corner of the room, I’ve got Henry to keep me company. Which is super cool. I no longer feel lonely because I’ve got my very own built in companion! How neat is that! And, now that he’s kicking like a maniac it feels more like I’m engaging with an actual someone, rather than an imaginary friend. At 26 years of age this can only be a good thing.

Of course, when he goes through all those ‘I’m-totally-too-big-and-cool-to-actually-like-you-anymore’ phases I’m going to be devastated, but for now I’m grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary every time I feel a little bump and a roll. Although he’s a tad too hard on my bladder at times, I’m really going to miss feeling the little guy inside. It feels indescribably good. Almost as good as the feeling I got when I snuck that first kiss from a sexy young doctor in a Kings Cross nightclub back in ’07. Awwwwwww.

While I’m busy melting in a pool of emotional memory goop I’ll leave you with an interesting little tidbit I came across today:

In 2002, a study found that smoking during conception increased the likelihood of conceiving a girl.

I’m going to take that one with a grain of salt but I thought I’d post it here for The Boy’s benefit should he ever need an excuse for smoking in the future. That’s one free pass for you, honey, so long as I get to use the  ‘calories are afraid of heights, so Tim Tam’s stored on top of the fridge are actually low-fat’ one at my discretion.


8 Feb

Now that I’m pregnant – visibly pregnant – my boobs are getting some long overdue attention. The Boy is certainly loving the new curves, and I have noticed a few more looks on the street of late which is certainly flattering since most days I feel (and probably look) like a heifer.

Anyway, I was pretty chuffed with my new boobalicious pulling power, until The Boy brought me back to earth with a little man-reality. Turns out bigger boobs aren’t the only flashing light that make pregnant chics look hot to men. As one of Ry’s mates so beautifully put it:

‘Pregnant chics are hot because you KNOW they put out.’

Right. Awesome. Well, whatever it is I do realise I’ve got a lot going on below the neck that’s now drawing attention. So much so that not ONE of my co-workers noticed that I’d chopped almost 10 inches off my hair last week. 10 INCHES! This wasn’t a trim, it was a complete overhaul and the only comment I got when I returned to work was ‘OMG…you’re HUGE! Are you sure you’re not having twins?’

While I do love the baby bump, which is still remarkably stretch mark free (hurrah!), it does strike me as odd that people, complete strangers even, now feel compelled to tell me how absolutely gigantic I am now. Not just huge. ENORMOUS. Mind you, I totally milked this during Sydney’s latest heat wave. Pretty easy since I was waddling around drenched in sweat with a scowl on my face that not even the bravest most hardened criminal would want to mess with.

Anyway, boobs or bump, at 21 weeks pregnant I’m totally curved up and loving every inch of it.