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.)