35 weeks - Too big

Its about time we officially declared it. Mistress P does have a Big Tum.

And not only that, its also a very very hot tum. This has resulted in a complete reversal on the workbench front. Previously, where Mistress P would grab for the covers as AB slept merrily just under a sheet, the fire in the P belly now results in quite the opposite.

With all the recent hot weather and steamy evenings (and Melbourne's new record for its most consecutive nights over 15 (20 and counting on March 1, breaking the previous record of 19 in January-February 1969) - thanks Blair!) we've been hitting the workbench nuddy and with sheet only. But with all windows open, by about 5am AB is waking up chilled (and hence in need of the loo) while furnace belly just sleeps on through and complains if the covers are pulled neckward. How things have changed...

On the preparations front, it appears we're having this kiddie-wink at approximately the same time as many of our contempories are thinking about giving the kiddie game away. (Though personally i'm batting zero when it comes to convincing people how convenient having a vasectomy would be. "But i wont be a full man any more..." Oh please....) Hence we havent so much been given baby stuff (i.e., everything from cots to toys to nappies to play gyms), as had stuff thrown at us from all directions.

We've suddenly gone from "ohmigod, Ruf will be sleeping in rags in a box" to "ohmigod i cant swing a cat in this room theres so much STUFF!" (see pic) We're pretty damn lucky I must say - its saved us a monty.

The rapid collection of stuff has also delivered one of those eerie degrees-of-separation thingys...

Some wonderful and very French (but now true-blue) friends invited us over for a BBQ to not only attempt to convince us that French Rose' is actually not a bad drop with a good aussie snag fest (I'll score them on points on thatta one), but also to clear some of their shed space by tossing some handy baby items our way. And indeed they had some great stuff, including a "baby bjorn" baby carrier, which luckily for us, we were just about to purchase and hence saved us considerable dosh.

Suddenly Ms French-friend exclaimed "And zis is going back to family too!"

Seems the sling used to be owned by one of dad-to-be's few female cousins (and one time landlord), and had been passed along to their friends when all the bubs had come and gone (now 10 and 13).

Said it once; no doubt will say it again. Its a small world...
(but i wouldnt want to paint it.)

On the work front, and with well under 5 weeks to go, Mistress P is actually admitting its starting to be hard going... even for the mid arvo chock (see below):

From: Mistress P
Sent: Friday, 23 February 2007 3:00 PM
To: AB
Subject: choc

I have a drawer full of snacks,

but what I really feel like is a small piece of chocolate...
do you have any up there?

P

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

From: AB
Sent: Friday, 23 February 2007 15:02
To: Mistress P
Subject: RE: choc

I think there might be some maltesers in the tin... come up
and see me big girl.

Cheers,
AB

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

From: Mistress P
Sent: Friday, 23 February 2007 3:21 PM
To: AB
Subject: RE: choc

can't move - got too big :(

I can't believe I've got more than a month more of this!

P

Back to School

On with the tie, long socks, and Bata tiger prints. Its school time.

One of the rights of passage for first timers these days appears to be the horse-piddle run birth classes. If you havent done at least one course you're just not one of the cool gang. This was our first class of three.

At first we were a little apprehensive as we'd heard all the horror stories of graphic clockwork orange-like hours of watching women in labour, blood soaked babies and endless episiotomies (well, actually, no one has mentioned seeing an episiotomy, just a jittery mind covering all bases).

The class had about 10 big bellied mums-to-be including one who turned out to be a former soccer teamate of Mistress P ("oh I thought i recognised you...") who we had arvo tea with and was there with a female birth partner.

"Mmmmm...," thinks AB. "Womens soccer + female birth partner + St Kilda market Thai fisherman pants = a wonderful new age couple who really should be legally allowed to wed (you moron Howard)."

"Oh my husband cant make it - this is my trainee-midwife friend..."

(Doh!)

We were also introduced to a young-and-in-love couple from Laverton.

"How many weeks to go for you guys?" we asked.

"Two!" they exclaimed all too happily.

(AB again:) "Errr... did anyone tell you this is a 3 week course?"

Turns out that 90% of the first class was being shown where in the horse-piddle you will go into labour (as well as the all important parking spot for drop off), sitting about talking about labour, seeing pictures of people in labour, looking at a myrid of (karma sutra-like) positions for people to use in labour ("doing it vertically means its up to 30% easier"), playing with models of a pelvic girdle and seeing how a baby - and later placenta - could stuff through it during labour, constructing a list of the steps of labour, trying out fit balls as a possible labour helping and baby-swivellig device, and, at the end of the whole shebang (and just when you thought you were getting out alive), the final 10% was of course...

A video of a woman in labour.

This was an "easy" one we were told. A good old British home birth, with seemingly endless midwives all dressed in these redickalus 19th century nurse uniforms (the kind Benny Hill chased after each week), lots of newspaper spread over the floor ("Geez P, that can't be a good sign..."), and dad wandering in mid contraction with a cup of tea + biscuit (for himself) chirping "Think we'll be done by eight luv?" (I gathered there was a soccer game/eastenders episode he wanted to watch or something.)

The woman paced about and did the chicken dance (really...), told the midwives which of the kama sutra-like positions was her preferred option ("I'm easy dear" said midwife, as though she'd get a say in it anyway), got lots of back rubs mid contraction including one from her own 3 year old daughter (AB: "Crikey - thats gunna leave some mental scars..."), then eventually lay back, stripped off and, with a bit of "Dont push" "I have to!!!!" "Dont push" "I have to!!!!" "Just wait" "I $*&^% cant!!!" ...plop. Theres your kid.

Dad didnt even spill his tea.

This all seemed to have a marked effect on Mistress P, mostly because she thought Mr. Squeemish-guts (a.k.a hubby) would be trying to hold back the old nausea tide at the sight of all the yucky stuff.

In actual fact he was somewhat fascinated.

(But thankful it wasn't the episiotomy episode.)

34 weeks - Rufous punches on

T minus 6 weeks and counting...

And Mistress P is already going through stages of "I have to get even BIGGER THAN THIS?!?!"

Rufous is certainy starting to twist and shout in there, and its not unknown for Mistress P to be merrily cycling along to work when all of a sudden "arghh... errr... {bit of a belly clutch} awww... RUFFFFOUSSS!!!" He certainly knows when to kick and shove and try to get out (through the belly button) when its least appropriate, which did lead to one comment to hubby about "your bastard baby" trying to kill her. Crikey... imagine the language when the contractions start. She'll be making truckies blush.

Maybe its payback for the weekend. It was hot. Damn hot. And as the house slowly but surely approached core-of-the-sun status after 4 days of close to the imperial ton (i.e., 100F), Mistress P slowly but surely started to wilt. Which is probably what most of Melbourne did also, but for her it was quite unusual. Dad-to-be got an attack of the guilts and went screaming off in the hunt for some sort of cooling device, eventually, two Bunnings later, finding the second-to-last hideously expensive evaporative cooler available in SE Melbourne, clubbed it and dragged it home.

Ten minutes in front of it and P came back to life. Of course it did diddly to cool the house itself, but placed directly infront of the belly it did wonders. (But when the belly got too cool young Rufous started objecting again. He is a tempremental tike.)

Maybe he's just hungry... cos mum certainly is again. Though maybe its cos she cant actually fit in, in one go, as much as she used to. But she is certainly thinking about food a lot and hence sending bizzarre food-pondering stream-of-consciousness emails at random times of day. A combination of preggas brain and preggas hunger. Its wonderful. I present, your honour, Exhibit A:

-----Original Message-----
From: Mistress P
Sent: Tue 2/20/2007 10:19 AM
To: AB
Subject: lizard and hippo

I'm a hungry hippo this morning.
I've already had an apple and a few nuts/seeds/sultanas
but I want something more substantial - like a peanut butter sandwich
(with my fancy peanut butter...) maybe I'll have some of my squashed fly biscuits..

P

(Squashed fly biscuits = a form of thin raisin slice.)

In the "one for the future" file, young Ruf has already had his career plan laid out for him by our ex-PhD supervisor, Simmo, who clearly has a solid belief in genetics/his ability to be teaching in 21-22 years time. Never one to miss an opportunity, it seems young Simmo has announced that, under the father(/mother)-son rule, he clearly gets first dibs on Ruf for his Doctorate. (But does that mean he misses out on a third round draft pick?)

We'll take that as a complement. (But I'd be happy for him to be a plumber. Like Kenny.)

33 weeks - longer and stronger.

Seven weeks to launch... well, actually a bit under now.

And everyone we bump into is asking the same thing...

"How long to go now?"

Seems neither of us can walk down a passageway at work without getting asked the same question. We're thinking of getting shirts printed with a countdown on the front/time gone on the back. (Mistress P's will have to be an empire line kinda thing...)

This past week saw Mistress P go to the docs again for the 33 week checkup. (Ok, 32 week and 6 days.) Heartrate of young Ruf was a steady ole 140bpm - a rate that would send dad-to-be off to the cardio ward/win him the Tour de France, but for an unborn its pretty much spot on the money. Good on ya son.

Length (pelvic bone to fundus of the uterus) was a little long. Seems at 33 weeks it should be 33 cm (the rule being about a cm per week gone), but young Ruf is pushing that out to 35 cm - the upper end of the normal range. Which could mean he might be a little early (take note those later entering the baby pool), or it could mean he's just a (slightly) big hoofer.

Given that he's still swimming around in there and not settling into any head-down lets-do-this-thing position yet, it may well be a case of the latter. Aside from that, everything is peachy, and the docs given Mistress P the go-ahead/medical certificate to work until 38 weeks so there'll no doubt be a fury of paper publishing and report writing for the next 5 weeks, one suspects. As for dad-to-be, he's had a chat to the powers-that-be and will be taking a month off from the time the baby arrives, and then playing it by ear from then on.

We're also hitting the hot weather time in Melbourne which now appears to be annoying the slightly bigger Mistress P just that little bit more. With a couple of 30-35 degree days just under our belt, and 3 more 35+ days in a row to come, it could get interesting. Lotsa cold showers, fans and avoiding the stuffiness of offices and trains. Of course the stresses of work, heat and planning for Ruf may well mean the release of more oxytocin and an increase in the "tend and befriend" female (as opposed to the more typical male "fight or flight") response to stress. And hence a desire for time with friends. As such, the weekend after next is so chock a block full of social activities we may well need another weekend (and a milo and good lie down) just to get over it. But its great to be loved. And those that love us are great.

PS: too many friends and we may well kick in its other properties! Seems this birth thing is just one big hormonal soup... without the crunchy crutons.

Week 32 - A Rufous by any other name

Thirty-two weeks down and 8 to go. Do you count up or count down at this stage...??

The lack of posting for the last couple of weeks can be put down to the fact that young Ruf (and mum & dad) attended a conference in Adelaide, at which mum starred as per usual. (I tried to sneak his name onto the opening slide of her presentation, but she was just too damn smart to fall for that one. This time...) With all this crisscrossing the country of late, I reckon young Rufous has done more flying miles this aussie summer than Santa Claus, and surely deserves his own platinum status Qantas club card (like mum). We'll have to start offsetting his carbon use soon.

Apart from his jetsetting ways, he's also developed a penchant for jamming his various body parts into mums ribs, which is becoming a little beyond a joke. We've been forced to have words with the lad already and I believe we've reached an understanding. His first hiccups are far less painful, but simply bizarre, and mum's had a bout of reflux that, in all sincerity, sounded like she was gargling gatorade from a drink bottle. Ewwwk. (A wonderful sound to be woken too at 3am, I can assure you. Errr... and maybe not on the wish list for Mistress P either.)

Mistress P has also ben devouring baby books at a rapid rate, and the facts and figures are spewing forth - much (almost) like the aforementioned reflux episode. The latest to send shivers down a spine is the prospect of changing/cleaning/disposing of 10 nappies a day. Thats 70 a week. Or 280 a month. Christ-on-a-bike: a thousand a quarter. On the bright side, if we decide to go disposable (err,... like, dude, who wouldnt these days) I am assuring Mistress P that such a volume of poo+plastic put into landfill is one helluva carbon sink and sequestation program, and hence we're actually helping the environment and Rufous' future world from global warming meltdown. Ipsofacto, disposables are clearly the globally responsible thing to do. (Thanks to our media-famous-friend, collegue and mountain-bike-buddy David Jones for providing me with thatta piece of logic (was it said tongue on cheek?) - we'll think of you every time were not scraping poo off terry toweling.)

Aside from nappies and rib kicking and all the other day-to-day stuff associated with readying for Rufous, and with the ETA now down below two months, its clearly time to put the brain into drive and start thinking about a name. Cos Rufous, or as the books spell the name, Rufus, means "red head", and knowing our luck he'll be born with just such a tomato nut and hence he'll be even more pissed off with us for naming him "red head" when he becomes a precocious teenager.

Mistress P has imposed rules for this naming process which means that he will inevitably be called something generated by a random set of letters and a silent q.
Rule 1: Name shall not mean anything. e.g., Matt, Rob, Harry, Gannet (yes indeedy, my mum wanted to call me gannet. (Well, she is a birdwatcher.))
Rule 2: If his surname is going to have "Wat" in it, then the firstname cant start with s (Mistress P: "cos he'll get called swat") or, of course, t (Mistress P: "cos he'll get called Twat")

Frankly I'm stumped. We're going to have to compile... a list. I suspect Mistress P is terrified such a list will only end up published on the internet and thus a decision made upon the whim of the invisible masses. Mmm... maybe we could sell such naming rights on eBay, just like that crazy Newcastle guy selling his life. The possibilities are endless!

Anyway, names... Luckily we have the infinite time wasting (though unfortunately not infinite time) tool at our fingertips for just such a process - the baby name wizard!! (Trust me, you'll sit there for hours... really, you will. )
http://babynamewizard.com/namevoyager/lnv0105.html

Names, nappies, near-vomits and knees-in-the-ribs. Only 8 weeks (+ 1 lifetime) to go.