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"... )
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