PS. Rufous stable table

PS. Never let it be said he's good for nothing... (note cherry ripe slice for Australia Day)

week 30 - the bladder dance

The belly gets bigger and the action gets slower.

Cept for Rufous that is.

He's taken to periods of lotsa activity, squirming about in there, attempting back loops, vulcans and willy skippers just as dad wishes he could.

The most awkward mavouvere, however, appears to be the bladder dance. On someone elses (read Mistress P) bladder. Thats gotta be on the negative side of the comfy scale for mum. This comes ontop of some back pain at times, a strangely numb heel at odd intervals, some swelling in the feet, and the odd bit of rib kicking. But then again, theres plenty of times when Rufous' is clearly sleeping like an angel and mum just feels like mum, not some ready-to-pop character from Alien.

On the mundane front we're still trying to organise a room for this tike to live in. This has meant Mistress P sorting through all manner of stuff (see pic) and taking over the lounge for a session of good old fashioned sorting. The place looked like Steptoe and son had come for the weekend.

And being post chrissy break, its back to work, where we're starting to learn all the whats and wherefores of the public service maternity leave thingy. Seems mum gets 3 months paid, and a further 9 months unpaid, leave. Dad gets sweet fanny adams. (Though there is a thing called "carers leave", which is about 8 days a year, that can be used in lieu of paternity leave.) It also seems work doesnt want to lose Mistress P, with projects and plans still being thrust towards her. Ahhh.... its good to be loved.

On the exercise front Mistress P is still preggies pilate'ing and swimming once a week, but the bike ride to work has been halved, with us driving (ohhh errrr) to a car park on the beach and then rolling the legs over in to work. With the occasional stop for a tosca. Very civilised.

Speaking of beach, and being a gloriously sunny Australia Day worthy of a beach stroll and brunch, we've also just discovered that the universes entire population of sub-3 year olds descends upon Ricketts Point for a parambulate and paddle on such a fine and nationalistic day. I think, for Mistress P, it was akin to an ornithobe visiting a chook farm... (but i reckon we'll be there next year).

29 weeks - its waddle time

Mistress P (and Rufous) continue to astound.

A windsurfing trip to the Aussie mecca of wavesailing, Geraldton, Western Australia, wasn't going to be allowed to slow down mum or tum. Even if the harness was impossible to fit in position with Rufous in the way.

Solution? A trip to Bunnings (where else?) for some heavy duty velcro, which was dutifuly glued to the spreader bar and stitched onto the wetsuit. (An old spring suit, previously given a stretching by our friend Courtney at 8 months preggas for a session of boogie boarding!)

Voila! Mistress P revolutionised windsurfing as we know it. The hook could now be laid above Rufous when she lay in the water to start (rather than dangling down beneath her legs in an impossible position), but once hooked in the velcro released and away Mistress P would go, with hook directly out in front (of Ruf) as it should be, held in place by the harness line tension.

Of course the windsurfari had many more challenges than just managing to windsurf. Dodging the infamous W.A craypot lines strung out, some may say deliberately, across the known windsurf haunts such as Coronation Beach was just the start. Hence Mistress P gave a self imposed exile from the waves, keeping to the inner reef and out (well most of the time) of the reach of those wacky crayfisherman dudes. Oh you guys...

Living in a house with between 8 and 10 others for over 2 weeks also meant avoiding food that everyone else wolfed down in Mr Creosote-like quantities (e.g., no Praise Dejonaise - egg whites apparently: though the closest we reckon it ever came to an egg was when the truck drove past Chicken Treat on the way to the supermarket ) and resisting Emu Extract (err... Export) beer. (Actually the latter wasnt really that hard - even for beer.)

Still the other great staple of a house of marauding windjunkies - BBQ shapes - was consumed in vast quantities and may well have contributed to the gain of several kg over the trip and... the commencement of "the waddle". Subtle, but it has arrived. It also meant that walks on the beach were almost an exercise in yoga movement, as Mistress P discovered the correct strolling posture that didn't lead to back pain. (Its remarkably hard, and involves lots of belly-sucking-in.)

On the plus side, there wasn't any longer a need for tummy feel-ups for people to get a piece of the fetus action - little Ruf just needs a stiff (cool sugary) drink to dance about for all to see. Sometimes from across the room. And as a reward Mistress P exposed the belly to the sun every day - supposedly at this time the little-man can sense/see the sun as a glow through the belly. How cool is that?

Rufous. The worlds smallest windjunky.











Thats him (and mum) under the yellow sail, middle of photo, heading out at Coronation Beach (WA), protected by the Ricketts Point posse.

A very special thanks to all those that assisted and encouraged during the trip - particularly those who helped lug well over 60kg of sailing equipment (plus packs) through the airports(!) - theres some things even a Mistress P admitted she shouldnt do: Big Ta to Adrian/Porridge, Mel, Jon, Miss Jane, my folks and Melb pickup David and Sue, MikeH, MichaelC, Brian, Wally, Mandy, Joel, James, Spotty, Phil, MikeCK, young Tom, old Tom, Simon, Sue, Brett, Deb, Jase, Megan and even Rick from Sailwest, for their support, good times, laughter, long beach chats, jelly snakes, and ultimately, great memories.