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.)