xmas

Week 25/26, and it was time again to visit the horse-piddle for a routine check.

A test for gestational diabetes (which basically meant Mistress P had a blood test after swallowing a glowing green glucose drink and sitting for an hour), other blood tests and a basic listen-in on Rufous' heart. The full results will be delivered in the new year, but from all accounts everything appeared to check out A-OK, so we're still firmly sitting front and centre on the bus to parentsville.

Sure, theres been a little heartburn, a few backaches and something funny with Mistress P's left knee (we're not too sure what thats from - maybe the quick pre-beach-hol trip to the waxing lady/rubbing from a shorty wetsuit, so we wont use Rufous name in vain for thatta one just yet), but it would appear all is bubbling along just dandy. And just in time for Xmas too.

We've also entered the dribbler stage.

Seems when a lady reaches a certain proportion (i.e., belly further north than her chin), then all of a sudden those little 'oops' when a drink slips off the lips, or a bit of jam topples off the toast, it doesnt just plop on the plate or floor (embaressing enough, granted), rather it displays itself as a long and obvious smear down the front of the shirt. A bit hard to keep that veneer of sophistication...

Speaking of food, it appears that everyone has a theory on how much or how little a preggas lass should be eating. Mistress P can put it away at the best of times - she appears to have the metabolism of a hummingbird - so theres an element of frustration when people ohh and ahh about how much she has been eating, when in fact its pretty much par for her course. Not to mention that being on xmas hols at Sandy Point, eating your own bodyweight is not only commonplace, it's in the holiday rental agreement.

Mistress P's happy, Rufous is healthy, and there's even a little catch-it tray so no food goes to waste. Perfect.

week 25 - Rub a tum tum

We appear to have reached the stage where the belly is of such proportions that people are no longer scared to ask "Are you preggas??" for fear of insulting a recently obese person.

Rather, now they barrell up and insist on telling Mistress P all their own trials and tribulations of parenthood, and the more game ones even attempt a belly rub in some strange and clearly mistaken belief that either a) it will bring them luck, or b) they're allowed. (We're told this "rubbing" is highly correlated with forward expansion... and hence will get worse.)

As a result of this, Mistress P was just about beside herself by the end of the work Xmas do, when it seemed everyone from the director to the toot scrubber wanted to regale her with pregnancy tales and/or a game of rub-a-tum. It wasn't helped by the fact that, as she couldnt drink, she had masterminded this plan of seconding herself to bar duties so everyone had to come and say hello if they wanted to imbibe. (I kept humming that line from the Skyhooks song, "Living in the Seventies..." whenever i wandered over: I feel like a barman, who cant drink a beer... I dont think she got it.)

After a few (too many) beers everyone wanted to come over and get a bit of tummy action, so she gave up on that idea, and moseyed on over to the band for a boogie. Oh oh... seems old school feotus gestation theories are alive and well, and hence within a couple of minutes the older generation summoned enough courage to prod the Assistant Director (Management) into sidling up and asking "Should you really be dancing in your state?" (I'm surprised Mistress P didnt clock her on the spot!)

The wonderment apparently also extended to a business meeting where, Mistress P being a climatologist and all that, a visitor from the Bureau of Rural Sciences in Canberra (i.e., the guys handing out money for the drought), suddenly, mid conference, asked:
"So, is it an El Nino or La Nina??"(Spanish for Boy child or Girl child: also the names of the climatological phenomona in the tropical Pacific ocean that drives climate worldwide and our current drought)
"El Nino!" Mistress P exclaimed
BRS man: "And when will it all be over?"
Mistress P: "Oh... first week of April!"
BRS man: "Thats great!!"

At least, we think he was asking about the belly... watch out for a media release from the gummint if we're wrong.

(Note to self: Possible baby name - "Al Nino Watkins"... mmmm.... could be a winner.)

week 24 - love

Sometimes someone says something that somehow, someway, sums up everything. Like why you reckon they're ace.

Saturday, and Mistress P is pondering the purchase of a friend's windsurfing sail, despite the fact that a) shes preggas and hence it may be some time before shes attempting that "Vulcan" manouvre shes now dreaming about, and b) we will be able to share a "sail quiver" for the foreseeable future, as leaving a kiddie locked in a hot Subaru while you both windsurf may well be an inditeable offence. (Even, i was surprised to find, if you crack open the window a lil bit.)

The sail would cost $A300.

We'd also earlier been talking about the purchase of a $400 pram. And the fact that we'd almost paid off enough mortgage to be vaguely comfy in switching from died-in-the-wool DINKYs - never having taken the preliminary step to being, like our good friends Noony+Jo(+Stanley), DINKWADS - to a 1 income, 3-mouthed fully fledged family unit (minus the picket fence).

ME: "Oh horse-hockey - $300 for a sail, $400 for a pram... man, we're gunna be poor forever..."

Mistress P: {long pause} "Mmmmmm..... wellllll we dont HAVE to buy the pram."

(See why i love this grrl?)

Being the thoroughly modern and lovable woman she is, she didnt beat AB senseless when he snuck up and took the obligatory "barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen" photo. She simply put it in her Microsoft Outlook calendar as a "to do" in 6 months time.

On the Rufous front, he's kicking and wriggling and generally having a gay old time. (Not that theres anything wrong with that.) Hence now, contrary to earlier, its when he's not bouncing about like a mad thing that mum feels uncomfortable and hence worried. On the other hand we're now so used to such wrigglings that sometimes this, combined with preggy brain, causes one to forget when he last tap danced to "smoke on the water" down in there. Hence:

Mistress P: "Hey, he hasnt moved for ages... I'm worried - feel my belly."

AB places hand on belly, and promptly gets it kicked, headbutted and high fived in quick succession, with a stop-start pattern remarkably like "Are we there yet?" in morse code.

AB: "Yep... Nothin..."

Week 23 - Jubblies

Boobs.

They're great arent they.

Only ours are now not only growing at an amazing and (as you'll see) expensive and time consuming rate, they have also started to leak, though thankfully only a tiny bit. Seems that beyond 12-14 weeks this is not all that uncommon, with the leakage being a bit of colostrum - the top notch high-grade nourishing stuff the bub gets to chow down on in its first few days. Although such leaks are fairly common, it still gave Mistress P one helluva shock when the bed suddenly appeared to be getting "a bit damp" beneath her for no apparently good reason.

According to the those that should know, the tip is to wear some disposable or washable pads to absorb the occasional leakage and to (and I quote) "Allow your breasts to air-dry a few times each day". Errrr... sorry?? I dont quite know how that will go down with the officemate. (But then again, he is French...)

The somewhat rapid expansion of the fun bags also led us to be standing - and for at least one of us, hopping from foot to foot - in the womens lingerie section of K-Mart on a sunny saturday morning when all decent folk of sailing age were out on the bay.

Seems that a C into A just wont go, and hence the newfound pneumaticy meant it was time for the big bra upgrade. Being a mere male, AB didnt quite realise what this involved, and hence naively thinking that a boob is a boob, agreed to go shopping with Mistress P for such things, assuming that they'd be in and out, wham bam thank you mam.

Errr... wrong.

Seems a pregnant woman cant have underwire, so that cut half them out. ("What, do you think it'll puncture them?") Then theres sports ones, breast feeding ones, ones with built in DVD player etc... so AB stood (3 newly purchased pyrex bowls in hand - and no, not to catch aforementioned leakage) hopping about and trying not to look like a pervy loitering in the lingerie section watching woman ooh and ahh over g-strings. (Well, you cant help but notice...).

Ok, selection done, next the changerooms.

Wandering over and standing in front of the female change isnt all that different. However at least other mere males are there for support, all looking equally dazed and confused. Which was prolly cos they knew what we didnt... theres never just one selection. (We did three.)

{The following section is not sanctioned by Mistress P, and are the apparently deluded theories of the author.}
This is quite possibly evolutionary. Hunter caveman realised that he may only get one arrow/club shot at that weeks worth of sabertooth, so he'd better make it a good one and get out of there with the meat before it and/or its meaner and uglier brother turned around and made a meal out of him instead. (i.e., picky hunters died out.) However gatherer cavegrrl looked out for the berries that were poisonsous when they get too red, hence carefully picked and chose through the purple ones and tossed away any that upon closer inspection were deemed just that little shade too pink. (i.e., quickie gathers died out.)

Clearly the same evolutionary principle now manifests itself in the art of smalls shopping. Bloke sees the 7-pack of Rios (medium) and thinks "one for each day, what'll they think of next?", grabs it and runs to the checkout. Total shop, 3.5 minutes, and no need to return for at least a year. A women spends 3/4 hour and 3 trips to the changerooms to decide theres only 1 item in the shop even worth looking at and maybe we should go to the shop where she bought the ones she got last time cos they fit really well and...

Darwin. You bastard.

week 22 - Rufous

{Boom} "Where did that come from? "

One minute you're feeling a little rotund but thats about it, and the next... everything ingested doesnt come out (not that that doesnt stop you going to the dunny in the middle of the night) and you put on 3 kg in a day.

Or at least thats what Mistress P claimed this week, when all of a sudden this water retention thingy kicks in, the belly swells and we're suddenly having to take lessons from the preggie pilates woman on how to get up when we're sitting the floor. (Its actually quite a trick really.... roll onto your front, come up into the dog possie, roll your toes under, then rock back onto your feet... something like that anyway.)

But despite the morph into a human-camel, it hasnt slowed down the P'ster. Theres been a couple of rides to work (admittedly with AB now carrying all the panniers and backpack) on the slightly more comfy full suspension mountain bike, aforementioned preggas pilates, swimmin-with-the-wimmen, preggie bellies fit ball DVD sessions (see the piccie) and even a sea kayak last weekend out to the Cerberus. ("It'll be like glass" said AB. "I'll show you" said mum-nature, and blew in 17knots fom nowhere mid paddle. Ever surfed a wave on a double plastic sea kayak??)

On the belly-boy front, there's been kicking and wriggling and general DIY maintenance galore from the little tike. We think he has built at least a pergola and possibly federation style veranda in there. At times the bouncing about is enough to make Mistress P's t-shirt take leaps off the belly. He also appears to have undergone a name change - which is possibly only apt given that now we're past 20 weeks, he is apparently legally a baby and no longer just one of those foetusy things. True dinks.

See Mistress P has been been offering a little hesitancy on the "stubbsy" name front, as that name derived from our first scan when he was just a little body and head with stubs. (Hence , much to AB's own amusement, christened by him as "stubbsy" on the spot.) P, however, wasnt all that keen on the little dear being forever labeled as just a torso and head...

But during a recent trip to the folks, future-nana-Watkins had a bit of a seniors moment and, forgetting stubbsy's name, took a stab in the dark and somehow came up with the name "Rufous". No, I have no idea how either - though surely someway related to their deep-seated birdwatching obsesssion - but the name seems to have stuck. So we introduce to the reader young Rufous Stubbs esq., official baby and part time wriggling expert.

(Later, according to AB given the bird connection, surely to become a Rufous Tit Warbler.)

Week 21... PS.

Dad just felt his first kick! (Only two weeks after mum.)
:-)

Week 21 - A mouthful of sticks...

We're now at week 21 and the changes just keep on truckin' in.

The most notable is the entrance into one of the more male dreaded stages of all.

See "preggas woman" has evolved over the millenia to prepare the nest/cave/double-brick-in-the-Baghdad-end-of-Hampton for the soon to arrive bub, to make said nest cosy, clean and secure to ensure the wee-tots survivability in the face of disease, sabertooths and/or bogans. Hence Darwin has kindly given us... the nesting instinct.

This has manifest itself in the P&A household as an insatiable urge to prepare the study as a baby room. To her credit Mistress P isn't all "paint the walls duckegg blue and put up wiggles posters" (thats more likely to be woosy old dad-to-be), but simply wants room to swing a cat(/baby), with a change table, cot, clothes & nappy storage etc etc. Sounds easy.

Of course in practice this means sorting out and converting what was a somewhat tiny study and computer room, but of late has become, well, a bit of a bomb area. Unfortunately this is where cleaning methodologies diverge...
AB (typical male): "I haven't used this crap since we moved in. Junk it."
Mistress P (common or garden variety preggas-brain woman): "Mmmm... this piece of paper with scribble on it from 1st year uni just may come in handy if I ever have to relearn basic rat physiology/papier mache a giant head - i'd better keep it just in case..."

Argh. But there appears method in the madness, and we're getting there steadily. The nest will indeed be livable, if not beautiful.

Mistress P is also now "enjoying" the delights of not sleeping on her back cos of a fear of the baby's now considerable weight applying pressure to the large vein (called the inferior vena cava) that carries blood back to the heart from the feet and legs. (Not helped by low - 90/50 - blood pressure as the blood vessels relax under the influence of the hormone progesterone.) And if we get all technical we only sleep on the left to stop the liver being squished as well. This of course means AB now gets regularly booted onto the "wrong" side of the bed - can a man survive without clock radio/light control(?) - and there is the significant risk of a wandering sleep dazed hubby returning from the post loo run and crushing said veins/babies/wifes anyway by springboarding into his regular bed-possie.

Aside from us, Mistress P's friend and previous workplace baby confidante, Fiona, has left the preggas club and joined the parent parade. Congrats... and welcome to the world cutie-pie Sarah. Its kinda brought the reality of the near future home to us fast - errr... and maybe to them too!

The next Lance..?

Scan Postscript: The results are in and the winner is... Sid-eh-nee... Well actually in this context it isn't, cos the winner is Stubbsy, who appears to be almost so normal he could be labelled boring (If it not for the fact that normal is fantastic in this context!).

The only thing slightly off centre (at about the 75th percentile) is the femur (thigh bone) length. Supposedly for bike riding the longer the better, since length improves leverage - you just may be reading about the next Lance Armstrong right here! (Dont say we didnt tell you first folks...)

Footnote: Biparietal = diameter of the head

Congratulations, its a .....

Its 20 weeks, and this can only mean one thing... off to the horsepiddle for yet another scan.

Of course Mistress P remained a little unsure about how well things were going bub-wise, but then such apprehension is also another tick on the "typical preggas stuff" list. Such doubts from mum are apparently only natural. However given the nature of the ever expanding belly it seemed a tad unlikely that the tike was anything other than a Pandora-powered growing machine.

The end result of scan 20 week - a perfect bub it seems; cooking well and at about the medium-rare stage. And apparently a handsome young devil too, as this is the second scan in a row where the apparently objective and sterile zapping machine person has suddenly gushed "Awwww isnt he a cutie!". (Maybe the next Zoolander?")

This time we also had a trainee zapping person as well as the seasoned expert, so we probably got a far longer session than is normal due to the old hand guiding the L-plater. However as the lil 'un has grown so much since last scan it was a little harder to tell what was what, as it appeared difficult to get the whole kit and kaboodle into the frame at the one time. Or maybe it was just us.

Speaking of kit and kaboodle, we saw some. And HE appeared to like playing with it too. (I think the operator(s) actually blushed when I said "Is he really doing what i think he's doing?" I think they blushed even more when I forgot to engage the brain and blurted "Guess he does take after dad..." - I was thinking of the infamous sperm test of course. N.B. All the above is noted purely for embarrassing 21st speeches of course...).

We also got to see all four chambers of the heart merrily squishing the blood in and out (a little slower than before (~150bpm), but still pretty much spot on normal), which frankly is bloody amazing, feet (see the second frame of the attached pic), arms, legs, spine, ribs, lips, nose... all the good stuff.

On the home front, Mistress P has become a little furnace, clearly responsible for a larger percentage of the enhanced greenhouse effect. Shes almost literally throwing the covers off the bed at night. Shes also become a hair growing machine - though thankfully just on her head. From a woman of fine locks she's developed a truly magnificent mane, apparently the result of increased levels of the oestrogen hormone. (Heres hoping that the flip side doesn't emerge during breastfeeding, when the opposite can occur and hair can apparently start falling out...)

The other apparent emergence is a little more emotion - the odd tear (but understandable; a close collegue passed away) and, thankfully for my stomach - a little more forcefulness. See, we were visiting this restaurant (cos, like, what in the world would we need savings for?) when we asked for garlic bread. They brought us herb. Now being of the good placid stock we are, we just started eating it and shrugged and gave the old "oh well, this is kinda nice anyway" when up walked the waitress. Mistress P, mouth still half full of aforementioned bread, and basket infront of us closer to empty than full, suddenly blurts out:

"EXCUSE ME,... but we ordered{chew chew, swallow swallow, chew chew} garlic bread!!"

"Oh sorry, i'll get you another..." the poor lass muttered meekly, and ran away, delivering another full (and free) batch of bread to the table in double time.

"Thank you" smiled Mistress P, glancing up with the look of a lioness protecting her kill.

"Its ok" I offered in my best Basil Fawlty/'dont worry, he's from Barcelona' voice.
"Shes pregnant..."

week 19 - hey, whats goin' on in there?

Week 19 and theres movement. Originally is wasn't clear whether it was indigestion from one too many Tim Tams on a typical Sandy Point holiday of gluttony, or the Kewell/Hamm-like kickings of a young 'un, but something was going on. But today (start of week 20) theres been clear and present movement at the station; we have kicking. Or at least very bizarre feeling wrigglin' about. Mistress P reports it's rather hard having a deep and meaningful about the science of gobal climate change with a crusty researcher when theres an alien dancing the achy-breaky-heart in ya' tum.

The week has also seen a rapid expansion of the belly. This has lead to the first real signs of preggy-wobble. Seems with getting bigger comes the added wonder of changing centre of gravity. It also means the Mistress P body continues to obey the laws of Newtonian mechanics, and takes a little more stopping than shes used to - kinda like Titanics avoiding icebergs. Case in point... a certain Mistress P is tootling along the bike path on her way to work, when a pedestrian steps in her way. She brakes. The bike stops as per usual, but... she doesnt... and does a slow motion topple off the side!

"I just kept moving!" she says.

Err... yup. Its called extra mass. A little differently placed than normal.

This of course lead to much tredipidation about the Melbourne Cup weekend away at Sandy Point, home of the windsurfing Cup-equivalent, and site of Mistress P's former speedsailing glory... would it be possible to hang out with a hundred or so of your favourite windsurfing friends on the biggest windsurfing weekend of the year, and be forced to sit on the beach patiently if you found you couldn't sail???

Aside from a few troubles getting the wetsuit to zip up (it couldn't quite) and getting comfy in the harness (not really possible, though once hooked in it was fine) she had no problems. Indeed she had to be coaxed out of going balls out in the speed comp. And even then it was only cos there wasn't a chickies competition, just an all in where only the big guns have a chance. In the end she sailed fine, even coming periloulsy close to pulling off her first carve gybe.

Little kicks, some wobbling about on a bike, and the bubs first sail. Could it be the next Harry Kewell/Mia Hamm, a twin for Kathy Watt/Lance Armstong or even a future Robby Naish/Daida Moreno? (Of course modesty, and hopefully sexual predication, forbids me from saying, "all of the above"... )

18 weeks and the living is easy

We're well and truly into the second trimester now, and true to form , Mistress P is ticking off the preggas list one by one.

She's indeed starting to look "rotund" and is clearly sporting a BigTum, but best of all everything has quietened down on the feeling queasy side, there is barely any nausea and lots of "feel good" hormones coarsing through the veins. So much so that theres been moments of "Am I sure i'm still pregnant?" (Its either that, or you've swallowed a basketball whole, my dear...)

Well, thats until the occasional heartburn kicks in - nobody told her about that (but shes now read about it...) Big, round and burning. And sometmies a little gassy. Aint it all so glamerous!

Being the superwoman Mistress P is, she's still riding to work 2-3 days a week (between 17 and 21 km each way, but now complaining (and fair enough too) she needs new hipster bike shorts), swimmin-with-the-wimmen, and pilates classes when she can. She's even talking about taking out the windsurfer - her embaressingly named Starboard FreeSex - this Cup Weekend. Rock. Is there nothing this woman cant do? (She certainly can make a mean rum ball, which she did this week too... mmmmm..... ruuuummmm ballllllll.)

We're also seeing bit of a return to, err... bedroom stuff.

...now, if the preggas list and Mistress P correlation remains true to form, we're just awaitin' the first kicks any day now. Stay tuned... more news at 10.

A tale of three tellys

Week 17 and I've just decided. It’s a mad mad mad world….

Mistress P is preggas and that was all a natural process – or so we thought.

Stepping back several months and a friend/work colleague of ours (lets call him Shoni, cos, well, that’s his name) was about to head overseas/gotten married/bought a widescreen etc, and was offloading stuff. Lotsa stuff. Including 3 tellys (no, I don’t know why the lad had 3 tellys either: he liked sport). We got one. And a bootiful big 50cm jobby it was too, so in theory all my friends would come over to our place and watch stuff and not complain about eyestrain from our old mini-teeve. (They haven’t, so I’ll have to assume they just don’t love me anymore.)

The "new" telly worked fine (despite what people have subsequently assumed).

He also gave one to a girl in our Public Relations group. And one to a guy in Hydrology Section.

Now I don’t know if all his rabid sport watching had resulted in an excess of testosterone/ pheromones oozing over the damn things, or whether they were just your common or garden variety weirdo superpowered eugenic-tellys, but…

All three people are now expecting bubs within a month or two of each other. {Cue twilight zone music/yell "whats them odds?".}

Bloody Shoni!
(But I’m sure we’re all stoked.)

week 16 - spongepants time

We're into week 16 and all is still rosy.

Well, cept in the couture department. Poor young Mistress P has hit the wall in-so-far-as dacks are concerned. And work dacks at that. They no longer fit. Not only that, but t-shirts are also becoming somewhat revealing, as the belly leaps forth at seemingly random moments, so its long singlets-under-shirt from now on we're afraid (which is a bugger when you're having 37degree days in October).

The clothing bust appeared to be somewhat of a shock to the ever expanding Mistress P, as she had expected to be able to last out at least until the full 4 month stage without having to succumb to the fatty-clothes, but alas and alack, twas not to be.

Lucky for the mortgage a local maternity shop was closing up (cos, of course, the owner was pregnant and waddling and about to practice what she preached) so it was cheap buys all round. We'll now be able to measure the tikes girth by the number of sets of stitching P takes out of the "expandable" pants.

Mistress P has also had a bit of a spurt of energy... she checked out some gyms and bought a Swiss-ball - all in the name of helping out a slightly achey-breaky-back thats arrived out of the blue - but has decided upon Pilates for preggas people. Shes now perfected the art of standing for long periods and lifting her arms up and down. Yup.. that'll get the ole watermelon out quicker...

On the nausea front the puke-o-meter is down to about 1 or 2, food and sleep are still in too short a supply (but its getting easier), theres frequent bouts of itchy-belly, and the week 16 visit to the doc resulted in Mistress P putting a stethescope to her own tum and eerily listening to a heartbeat that wasn't hers...

14 weeks... or was it 12,.. or 15.....

Oh oh,...

I'd heard about it, feared it, expected it and am now starting to experience it.

Preggas Brain.

I realised the situation we were in at about 9:25pm, Melbourne Airport, when we met Jo.

Jo is our old housemate from years back - then a struggling PhD student patiently putting up with Mistress P and I canoodling on the couch at constant intervals, now a high powered public servant in Canberra, trying as she might to fix the problems of indigenous (un)employment. (She was also the only person brave enough to be an advisor to Peter "release the hounds" Reith AND be a trade union rep at the same time. i.e., She has balls.)

Anyway, Melbourne Airport, 9:25pm... no Jo to be seen. In fact the entire Adelaide flight had come, collected random luggage (as Adelaide bogans are want to do) and stalked off into the night. There was no one left. Even the people who'd lost their aforementioned luggage had wandered off to the complaints counters.

"Are you sure Jo was coming in at 9??
"Pos-tive" said Mistress P.
"From Adelaide?"
"Definately."
"Well where in the wide wide world of sports is she???"
"Dunno..."

Several more laps round the luggage carousels, taxi ranks and coffee shops (Lygon St habits die hard for Jo) and I was about to walk out and drive home and hope Jo hadnt been ambushed by Patrick Corps black hooded strike breakers for past sins when...

Along came Jo...

"What happend to you Jo?"
"Nothing... just got in. 9:15 from Perth."

Aww crumbs.

At least this wasnt as bad (though would have been if we had abandoned Jo alone at the airport) as earlier in the day when Mistress P phoned her BIG boss in Perth, and chastised him heartily for not sending her a report in time cos he had promised to have it to her by Friday afternoon and now it was getting too late for her to have any decent input and they really need to work closely on this and....

BIG boss: "Errr... today is Thursday"

-----------------------------

(This following post originally appeared on October 2 2006 at: http://windjunky.blogspot.com/2006/10/tupac.html)

All we wanted was some fish and chips.

Sunday night, AB arrives home shagged from a sailing session at Green Point (with new Combat Wave 5.0; wuvverly), and Mistress P staggers in from a 1-year old barfday party ("Im buggered!"); all seemed right and dandy for a fish and chippy slap up feed.

"I can't eat flake remember, its top of the foodchain and fulla mercury and stuff - can you get me some whiting instead?"

No worries my dear.

AB heads on down the chippie - which is actually a milk bar run by a nice but grossly overworked Asian couple who at first had no idea but now make some of the best fish and chips (and hamburgers) this side of anywhere.

Walk in the door and out from the back walks the lady, scoffing down some dinner of her own.

"I'll have a 2-pack please, and..."

"PACK 2 PACK 2" she barked at AB. (A "pack 2" is 2 flake, 2 dim sims, 2 potato cakes and a serve of chips. $10.50 Its not rocket science. Indeed, i always seem to call it a 2-pack, and this upsets her and her husband greatly when i have asked for such in the past.)

AB: "Errr.. yes, a pack 2 please, but can one be without flake - whiting instead?"

NiceAsianLady (NAL): "NO. Pack 2 only flake"

AB: "Ok, well can i have a pack 2 with whiting, and i'll pay the difference"

NAL: "No, pack 2 only flake"

AB: "You do have whiting dont you?"

NAL: "yes yes, whiting sure."

AB: "Ok then, i just want the same as a pack 2, but can we just add 50c or something for a piece of whiting instead of flake?

NAL: "NO. Pack2 only flake."

AB: "ok, ok.. well can I just buy all the same things as go into a pack 2, individually, but one piece flake and one piece whiting?"

NAL: "NO NO! No pack 2 with whiting only flake!"

AB: "yes, I know, I understand."

AB then looks up at the board to read what a pack 2 had in it. I then start to read it out...

AB: "Alright... can i have 2 potato cakes, 2 dim sims, chips for 2 and 1 flake and 1 { ...almost there... come on come on.. we can do this} whiti... {oh oh, shes onto me... no no please no...}

NAL: "NO PACK 2 ONLY FLAKE!"

At this juncture AB was about to leap over the counter and shove the bloody fish in the fryer himself. Plus flake woman for good measure. She sensed this.

NAL: "You get pack 1 {1 flake, i dim sim, i potato cake, chips} plus dim sim, plus potato cake plus whiting: $11.05"

AB: "DONE!"

(And i bet you a lobster the flake wasnt flake anyways...)

The things we do for love. If not a preggas Mistress P.

13 weeks - Bullseye!

Well the big 13 week scans been done and the results are in...

All perfect!! We've seen toes (5 on each foot) and fingers (5 on each hand), beating heart, spine, ribs, legs (with all their bones) and knees, liver, ears, lips and all the good stuff that slotted and glued into the right configuration makes a little human being.

And I think it takes after his uncle - it seemed to have a penchant for finger or thumb sucking!

The little tike flipped and flopped and danced about on its back inside Mistress P's belly like some demented rap dancer. At first I was a little worried that we were spawning a new micheal jackson (could we do that to humanity), but the docs, and every parent whose seen a 13 week scan, told us such flipping about is completely normal. (Something to do with the central nervous system just starting to form properly, and hence all actions are quick and jerky.)

"It" also had a good old kick around while we watched (though Mistress P can't feel a thing), so we're ditching the jackson 5 idea and going with the next harry kewel instead; would make sense given Mistress P's "eye" for soccer.

Best of all the blood tests and neck measurements revealed all good news on the potential problems front.

A stock standard 36 year old (i.e., Mistress P) has a 1 in 180 chance of downs normally, but the tests reveal our little begger has a miniscule little 1 in 5200 liklihood of any problems - the same chance, ordinarily, as if "mum" were a 15 year old.

Oh, and yet another change in the due date - our 4th change so far. We're now looking at April 1. But we're no April fools, it'll change again we know... At the rate the due date has been receeding it'll be popping out about 3:30pm next Tuesday.

You know, its all amazing... truly amazing...

10 weeks and the barfing is occasional

Its 10 weeks and Mistress P is still running around like the proverbial headless chook, trying to pretend that all is normal in between feeling nauseous and occasionally barfing. Shes about a 5 on the Puke-O-Meter most mornings ("this P-O-M goes to 11").

That said, hunger is definately well set in. Seems that eating actually makes you feel less like driving the porcelin bus, rather than more. And hence Mistress P is eating for about 6. Oranges directly after waking in the morning are a favourite, though theres a desire for quanities of yoghurrt at times too.

Funnily enough, the only thing that seems to set the Puke-O-Meter off big time is the smell of the dishwasher (huh?) and the smell of the compost. (Its suspected this is just a ruse to get out of emptying the bin/dishy, but we'll go along with it for now.)

The other thing thats well and truly arrived is the tiredness. If P isnt home for her 6pm nap then shes frazzled, and its only the Directors notice of instant dismissal for all those found sleeping on the job (yes, this is for real - its a night shift thing flowed down to the day folks) that stopping Mistress P from grabbing 40 winks at the salt mine.

On the other hand, AB is "experiencing" the traditional male come down (scuse later to be revealed pun) cos he's gone from being Mr Shag-on-demand-to-the-point-of-exhaustion to Mr Married-to-a-chundering-nun. He's heard a rumour that sanity returns in the second trimester... (but at least he's getting to sleep earlier.)

Respective mums and family are in on the bub-to-be action, but work doesnt know (Mistress P'd up for a big promotion, and we dont want to put any temptation to break the law in front of them), though the word is spreading amongst some of the very close inner circle (i.e., those who might wonder why Mistress P is avoiding the friday night pub session/people who spied a bit of a bump) - and those who read our emails to others when they shouldnt!! (We blame Bill Gates.)

That damn 12 weeks/end of first trimester/big scan cant come fast enough..!

7 weeks - First scan man

The year 2005 wasnt all that kind to us in the bubba department, with a false start (and all too yucky ending), so we decided on a nice early scan with this one, just in case.

So, off it was at 7 weeks to see if we had a blob or a bub.

On to the couch, goo warmed in the microwave, Mistress P on the bed, out comes the ray gun and "zappo".

Within seconds we knew we'd bubbed and not blobbed!

"Well thats it then - we can go home now..."

A heartbeat (174bpm), some little arm and leg stubs, a spine, and a "perfect" 7 week old embryo (they dont call it a foetus just quite yet). ETA: April 4 (though in subsequent letter to the Doc they said April 3...).

We walked out in somewhat of a daze. AB smiling like a cheshire and Mistress P seeming to be dumbstruck - and in need of some gelato from the Melb Central gelati shop. (No, we dont know why - its a mum-to-be thing.)

Ok... we're on the bus to parentland... next stop the all important first trimester and the BIG SCAN.

Crikey. This is serious mum.

Testing the teste

In the fertility game there is no right and wrong, so if Mistress P was going to be prodded, probed and pincered for why it had taken so long for her to get duffed, it was only right that I get the young'uns battle tested too.

First the decision - "Do I/we do this at home and rush in under an hour with a condom of man-love kept warm in my pocket, or do I go in to the ROOM OF PORN (ROP) and 'enjoy' the undoubtedly classy facilities?"

Now this aint no easy question.

Option A is all messy and gooey and "what if i fall over in the street and end up with pearl jam all over me and people point and call me clag-boy and i develop life-long anxiety traits?".

And Option B is, well, just plain un-erotic and probably the anithesis of woody-inspiring. (And what if I couldn't... it wouldn't, you know.., happen???)

But option B it was, cos carrying around a condom of spooge in your pocket is second only to picking up doggy do via the inside-out plastic bag trick. And the doggy doo doesnt have to be humped through the city for an hour.

I grabbed a late train and jumped off at central station.
"Walk or tram? Walk or tram?" I will admit to being a little on edge. Walk it was - hell, it was sunny and I had no intention of arriving early. I mean, sitting in a waiting area watching other guys go in and out of a little chicken choking room and knowing i'd have follow and maybe sit on the same seat and... Euuuk. This aint no all-boy private boarding school you know.

I finally arrived - dead on time - enter the pleasure dome.

"G'day... I'm AB and I'm here for the 10am milking" (or words to that effect...)

"Ok" said the nice lady in a white coat... "Here's the jar, room is directly behind you, read the instructions on the wall and remember to lock the door."

I was somewhat dissapointed at her cold and calculating nature,...
"Just like that - no dinner, no movie, no moonlight stroll? What you take me for lady in white coat?" (But all that actually came out was a kinda muffled "yes mam".)

I turned. I walked. I entered the ROP and locked the door. Twice.

A couch, a couple of chairs, a TV/DVD all-in-one unit, a toilet, a sink and a set of instructions on the wall. At first I thought i'd entered the remand centre by mistake, but no, this was indeed the love shack in minimilist form.
("What, no shagpile, no revolving king bed, no mirrored ceilings?")

The TV didnt seem all that appealing (hell, lady in white coat would surely hear it) so it was off to the magazine rack. Now i was getting nervous. A friend had told me of a guy they knew in the States who'd turned up for such a thing to find the only magazine was 'TIME', with bonus 'woohoo' factor of Dame Maggie Thatcher on the cover. (He took it as a challenge to his manhood, if not imagination.)

I looked - an FHM (better not - i actually would read the articles), a Playboy (aww jees.. old men in bathrobes) and a [something-or-other-i-had-never-heard-of] that appeared mildly erotic. Oh well, its hardly the Paris Hilton/Mimi McPherson double set DVD collection, but it'll do to "set the mood".

The rest can be left ot the imagination. I followed all the instructions on the wall, which mostly consisted of washing your hands - a lot. (Despite this, no one offered a handshake when i left.)

That all over, it was just to leave the ROP, jar in hand. This became a whole lot wierder when I exited to find another bloke standing and talking to my date/lady in white coat.

"Aw crap." I said to myself.

Now what do you do? Stand there with a jar of jizz, which everyone knows is a jar of jizz, and hop from foot to foot and try to tuck it under your arm to "keep it warm"/hide. The other bloke, clearly having recently deposited at the love bank himself, was equally hot footing it.... eye contact was NEVER going to be made - the unspoken rule of the communal urinal was in force.

Dont look. Dont talk. Just do. (Its a man thing.)

He left - blind turning so we never crossed so much as a glance (must be a regular; good move) and i passed "the jar" to lady in white coat.

"Heres a form to fill out" she said.
Scribble.
Done.
"Thats it. Goodbye".
("What, no kiss, no phone number, no same-time-next-week or dinner with the folks??")

I slunk out the door - a little opening in a long grey wall with "andrology" signed above it - and wandered off down the street with the sun on my face, a post-pop-looseness in my groin, and the knowledge that someone was probably watching my boys freestyling Thorpy-like under a micoscope that very second.

"Chalk that up in the 'one to tell the kiddies' file" I mumbled.

Orrr... maybe not.

(Postscript: Like Thorpey, the lads had clearly just needed some fattening time in L.A - a week later, the wee-wee swizzle stick announced we were preggas. Good on ya boys.)