week 39 - home alone

The first week at home and Mistress P was finding it a little strange, to say the least, to suddenly be expected to laze back and put the feet up. (So she didnt.)

"Wheres the report writing, wheres the stress, wheres the deadlines? This cant be right..."

Of course she soon found plenty to do - swimming in the local pool (800 metres at a time) being the favourite. It was here that she was faced with that most difficult question a heavily pregnant but slick-through-the-drink lady must answer.

"Do I embarrass that man by overtaking him in my state?"

Sure...

Theres also been lots of beach walking and stretching in the sun, more book reading, some nesting/baby room preparations, visits to family and friends, and even a lil bit of Kath&Kim-esque Southland shopping for... the baby whisperer book (AB loves the description of how to tell if baby is hungry: apparently it goes "wa wa wa"! Genius...).

According to the baby whisperer, there are five types of babies: angel, textbook, spirited, touchy and grumpy.

"We'll have one textbook angel please. Easy on the grump."

On the labour front there has also been the creation of the birth plan, which basically says "we'll give anything a go - cept pethidine, cos that makes Mistress P chuck up." Given the amount of stuff being expelled from the female during birth, keeping at least one thing inside the human body may well be considered a good thing.

For further assistance in labour, and following the advice of a few recent baby poppers, Mistress P headed off and rented a "Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulator" (TENS) device. This consists of two electrode strips that are glued to the skin either side of the spine (electrode contacts at the top please), from "just below the plumbers crack" to about halfway up mum-to-be's back. This is all attached to a little battery pack with dials and buttons that basically control the "zap" that mum-to-be can give herself.

Despite the fact that this all has the appearance of something not out of place in a Guantanamo Bay interview room, supposedly its use in this context is for good and not evil. The electrical current to the spine supposedly "scrambles" the bodies pain impulses and hence reduces the OUCH! signal that gets to the brain.

It's also thought to stimulate the release of endorphines, which are the bodies pain relievers - and why you feel so great when you finish a long run. Fair enough. Best of all,... the TENS can be used safely in conjunction with a whopping great dose of the gas or barbiturate...

On the socialising front, the weekend also brought lots of visiting and yacking - the tend and befriend instinct appears to be kicking in hard - and also exposed the preggas brain once again.

This time the Saturday night party, where Mistress P was clearly one of the stars and hence was supplied with her very own bar stool for the duration of the evening, which subsequently ended slightly early and sans handbag. And when we say "handbag", we really mean "tardis", cos it contained wallet, glasses, phone, hair brush, horse-piddle details, kitchen sink... thereby necessitating a trip back the following morning.

Clearly AB was suffering preggas brain too, cos they both forgot the change from daylight saving time and hence arrived an hour earlier than they told the bleary eyed party-hosts they would. (Doh!)

So now, with just one week to go, its all about the waiting. And it seems that the odds actually aren't in our favour that this will indeed be the last week.

According to the weekly email from birth.com.au, and with the accompanying caveat; "I read it on the inner-net so it must be true", it would appear that the average length of a human pregnancy is about 40 weeks + 8 days for first time mothers (and 40 weeks + 3 days for
mothers having their second or subsequent babies). Furthermore:

If women were left to go into labour spontaneously without being induced:
* About 50% would have their baby between 39 and 41 weeks and up
to 88% between 38 and 42 weeks.
* 5% of babies would be born on their actual due date.
* 6 to 7% of babies would be born premature (before 37 weeks).
* If not induced, a very small percentage of babies would be born
after 42 weeks.

"You mean we gotta wait up to another 2 weeks??"
Christ on a bike. Mistress P will be passing Grant Hackett in the pool by then.

Or, errr... beaching in the shallow end.

A final touch of class

Thursday. One last class...

Only this time it was a little different, as this was a private physio class about the body and labour, as opposed to a general horse-piddle run class which covered a little of everything. Mistress P had already attended one of the physio classes but this time it was for partners as well.

So what does a physio birthing class entail? Seems it mostly about pain, and how to manage it, in the labour hours.

And the best way to teach about pain? Well, get the students to experience it of course.

Apparently in the previous class the teach had gone around and pinched people hard to see how they react. As clearly none had punched her lights out in response, she was back again this week to tell us that Mistress P was a shoulder tenser. As in, she pulled her shoulders in and tensed up her body. Apparently this tension is a no-no.

This time, instead of a little pinchy-pinchy, she asked the class to squat - like they were about to take a dump from a foot off the ground. Sounds easy peasy, but when you stay in that position for more than 20 seconds it starts to hurt, and muscles start to proclaim "enough" rather loudly. She kept us all there for 45seconds the first time in an effort to see how we all coped. Including the unsuspecting partners...

The girls had already learnt about "de-tensing" (long, loose fingers; slack jaw; shoulders down) and moving hips etc around in a big circle, so they all went a bit floppy and started some sort of whirling dervish hip gyrations. In the background was music playing, and this distraction seemed to help the girls handle the discomfort immensely. (For AB, though, this distraction wasnt from the pain, but from his pain management, and hence all he could think of was "bloody heck" and "this muscle quivering's gunna make me wet my pants", which was clearly not the desired aim.) The squatting and discomfort was done a time or too more, and it aint easy, no matter how often AB tried to picture Sgt Barnes (from Platoon) 3 inches from is face screaming "Take the pain!!". (Guess you gotta see the movie...)

The reason for partners was not just to show them that pooping the pinapple was gunna be hard (constipated Freddy could tell you that), but also to show how they could help out. This consisted not only of the best ways to massage and coach, but also how they could help with various positions for mum-to-be to get into when having contractions. Mistress P liked the "sit on a fit ball, arms across the back of a chair" best, but there were a couple of others that have gone into the preggas play book. Seems partner's best bet is just to run around, headless chook like, and claim a ball, a chair, and some pillows the instant they arrive at the horse-piddle ("Take your own pillows" they said; err... Isnt a horse-piddle full of beds - and ipsofacto, one might expect, pillows?), and then follow orders.

There was also the back massage to learn - best to get the basics down pat now, rather than when mum-to-be is screaming "not there you ^%*&wit, DOWN THHHEEERE!!!" (errr.... yes dear...). And even a little coaching on the encouraging talk to give mum (e.g., "You're really doing well love"; "You're a champion"; "almost there - you are totally amazing,...", rather than "Shizenhausen - that must hurt like a bastard babe!!"

All these tips were esssentially coping mechanisms so mum just doesnt go into a complete panic at the first onset of a contraction.

"And why not panic?" one might logically ask.

Seems a leap into fight or flight territory, and hence the big adrenalin rush, is actually not a great help when giving birth. Cos rather than relaxing the muscles and letting things flow as they should, the tension causes things to shut down and wait... much as they probably should if you're in the middle of pooping out an heir on the African plain, a hungry lip-licking tiger appears and a quicky evacuation becomes the order of the day...

The final lesson was more for mum, and involved lots of use of the word "stool". It took a moment or two for AB to realise this wasn't polite chat about sitting on a backless chair in a bar, but instead about how you pinch out Mr Hankey.

The technique is called "brace and bulge", and is apparently the way to do a big poo plus doubles as a good way to squeeze out a kiddie. Seems you place hands on the abdomen to "brace" it as you tighten the abbada-dabba muslces, meanwhile relaxing the sphincter area and letting it "bulge", allowing everything to flow out as nature intended. Sounds easy, in a "pat your tummy while rubing your head" kinda way. Bet it isnt. (But practising it on the couch as I write is leading to some considerable urge play the backdoor bugle.)

The session ended with some nice tips on driving to the horse-piddle. This again was as much for the partner as for mum-to-be. Seems dad should NOT bag up the tyres, run red lights, weave through traffic or use the footpath (...bugger...) as all this will do is get mums adrenaline pumping and the car impounded under Bracksy's anti-hoon rules.

Instead, an "as normal as possible" drive along a preplanned route (check), with mum-to-be relaxing shoulders, jaw and hands, eyes closed and thinking calm thoughts, and taxi-driver dad offering the odd "we're just near luna park, not long now love". (Maybe we should just get a talking GPS? With non-American voice option...)

"Get those shoulders down Mistress P."

My job is done.

week 38 - a working girl gathers no moss

Well thats it then.

Week 38 was the final working week for young Mistress P before the gummint said "no more", and banished her to (paid) maternity leave.

Armed with a stiff medical certificate she'd managed to work past the mandatory "6 weeks prior" kick out from the public service, and lasted through until the very last day - exactly 2 weeks before the due date. (At least this is better than 30 years ago - she would have had to leave, permanently, as soon as she got married...)

Strangely, while everyone has been saying for weeks "grrl, you're about to pop", when it came time to gather and eat cake (+ Ms L's cherry ripe slice... Mmmmm..... chhheeeeeerrry rriiiiiiippe sliiiiiiiceeee...) to celebrate Mistress P's move from salt mine slave to lady who lunches (and then pops), all and sundry were exclaiming "you cant be leaving already!" But she was.

In fact Mistress P was leaving later than at least one other girl friend from work who was due at roughly the same time. And who, it turns out, actually gave birth on the same day as Mistress P left the building. (But we better keep that secret... cos her partner is someone sorta famous but somewhat private... lets just say shes strictly dancing on such a good news week... ) Well done M!!

This is all, of course a sobering reminder that "the change" is just around the corner. Rufous is now considered pretty much cooked - roughly medium rare on the carnivore scale. Hence the bags are packed and placed in the ready to roll position - lotsa heat packs, floor mats, food (for dad - Mistress P doesn't want him bonking mid labour), clothes (for bub and mum-to-be: "do you think I'd look alright giving birth in this?" Err.... sure....), some newborn nappies, all the required horse-piddle forms and an ipod.

For this final item it seems Mistress P is exhibiting the latter stages of preggas brain. Let loose in a music store to find some soothing "during labour" music (she was thinking of Dire Straights... I was thinking REM ("Its the end of the world as we know it...")), she returned home with the kill - a 50cents-in-the-bargain-bin CD of *AWESOME* hits from 1991.

Lets just say its opening track is by a certain Mr. Vanilla Ice esquire. For those that dont recall, I present, your honour, the evidence for the prosecution in the case of V.Ice vs Mankind: Ice Ice Baby...

Yo VIP, lets kick it...
{ice ice baby... do do do do-do do do ....ice ice baby}
...

Quick to the point to the point no faking
I'm cooking MC's like a pound of bacon.
....

Bacon? No. I dont know what he's on either. But tar-and-feather my blinky-bill ears, its frustratingly catchy. Our only worry is that 1) young Ruf will stay in if he thinks that what constitutes music in the outside world (And frankly, who could blame him) and 2) Like our friends who played James Blunt while preggas, it becomes the only song that now calms their 6-month old and must be played at all times, especially in the car (where no one can hear you scream).

Mistress P's other favourite off the CD appears to be "wiggle it, just a little bit, (acid groove!)", which surely will induce labour on the loungeroom floor if Mistress P keeps up the associated dance action. Oh, and "Cant touch this"... its Hammer Time. (Remember the pants??)

Aside from the bag packing and "music", there are also the new rules for dad-to-be. First and foremost is rule number 0.05.

Dad-to-be at no time can be even vaguely within coo-ee of 0.05% blood alcohol level, cos just like batman, he must be ready at any time to jump on the bat pole, slide into the batcave, switch "atomic batteries to power, turbines to speed" and batmobile is go. (i.e., he cant get too pissed to drive, legally or otherwise).

This, of course, was trickier than it seems when invited to a 21st - the first in donkeys years - of a sailing buddy where grog was free and flowing and hair generally being let down. Then again, it probably saved him from excessive perving at all the 20 y.o Paris Hilton look-alikes. (Or laughing at the girl wearing leg warmers... at least we were forced to live through the 80's.)

He must have petrol in car at all times and route planned for all eventualities.

He must carry a (charged) mobile phone on his person whenever out of bellowing distance. Especially at work.

Fair enough.

On the Rufous front we've also found ways of teasing the little blighter.

Seems he isnt all that keen on being under the hot water in the shower, and can be seen squirming from one side to the other when the hot water is run down Mistress P's belly. (Must be all that English blood from mums side - cant stand to wash too often.)

He'll also do a little dance if you stroke down one side of Mistress P's belly. Oh yeah...

Ice Ice baby.

Wiggle it.

week 37 - Grinning and Bearing It

Getting closer.... less than 3 weeks to go now and, with Ruf pretty much cooked, the important questions are starting to be asked. Such as...

"What happens if/when my waters break?"

Notable precautions so far have included plastic bags placed in the car for immediate break deployment (dont want to ruin any upholstery in the Suby) and a babys mattress protector popped under Mistress P's side of the bed.

Dad-to-be though - ever aware of the drought - claims he will just chase Mistress P and catch it in a bucket.
"I swear P, its the only way we can water the garden under stage 4 restrictions..."
I'm sure the crepe myrtle will appreciate it.

On a related note, Mistress P is still swimming - racking up 800m freestyle at a time (watch out Grant Hackett) - which has also raised one of the great philosophical questions of our time: "If your waters break in the pool, do you tell the lifeguard?" (Well, do you..?)

The start of the 37th week also brought the end of the cycling to work for mum. Not so much because of any discomfort, more just due to being too tired at the end of the day to ride (halfway) home again. Which is a pity, as apart from having a Lance Armstong-like thigh bone, young Rufous appears to like the riding. Well, if falling sound asleep and not kicking mum in the bladder can be taken as an unborns sign of appreciation .

Which is more than can be said for mum. (With respect to sleeping that is, not kicking people in the bladder.) She's having a few more problems now getting through the nights, partly cos of some rib pain but mainly cos she is cooking - literally. During the day, the most most common thing heard from future-dad is:

"You're hot babe!"

Some may take this as a comment on Mistress P's physical attributes - and fair enough too, she is a babe - but she really is. Hot that is. If she gets any hotter the UN security council will surely send round the inspectors looking for centrifuges and contemplating a pre-emptive strike.

And then there is the weight. For the first time in existance Mistress P tipped the scales at only 1kg less than AB, and catching fast. This, of course, has resulted in a significant increase in the air pressure required in her mountain bikes shock absorbers. ("oh, thats terrible..") In a sign of times, (and the following is acknowledged as totally non-PC) the divorce weight has been given an injunction for the foreseeable future ("Forever!" screams Mistress P).

The weekend also saw the giant sort of all the clothes our friends had given us. Its amazing. Sizes 0000, 000, 00, 3 months, 6 months, 1 year... all sorted into piles for future use and all catalogued on the laptop according to their original owner. It's amazingly generous...

The only confusion is from all the clothes our French friends (B&A) gave us.

"What in the wide wide world of sport does that mean??" kept pondering AB, as yet another t-shirt was pulled from the pile, emblazoned in a large French logo/motif.

Ruf may well be the most fashionably dressed young'un around with his (designer?) international wardrobe - lets just hope it doesn't all pronounce "I'm a cute girly" or worse still (and this would be friend B's sort of humour) "My dad is such a monolingual Aussie he has no idea what this shirt says". Errr... which is also clearly true.

Of course sorting and washing and drying the clothes is one thing. (And i must say, hanging them on the line they are just so goddamn cutesy small - brings a tear to the eye...) Knowing how to dress a kiddie is another. It was here that Mistress P brought out... the bears. Press studs were pushed, arms bent and bodies folded until all were dressed in their 000 finest (see pic above).

And there they sat all week.

If only bears could talk.

3rd and long

Thursday. Final class.

Its all about the boob.

This week started with a discussion on breastfeeding - the good, the bad and the ugly. And of course a video; though this time it wasn't pushing watermelons out of ag-pipe, but rather enough big boobs and breast squeezing to put a Russ Meyer fillum to shame.

There was lots of discussions on the benefits of popping the boozies out for a feed: strengthened immune systems, release of oxytocin for mum (and hence quicker post-preggas recovery), quiker post pregnancy weight loss ("it uses 3000 calories a feed"), bonding with bub and a milk bar on tap at all times. The downside... sore nipples, babies biting, difficulty getting it all started and the killer - up to 12 hours of feeding per day with the need to feed every 3 hours (these days they dont recommended a set interval for feeding though, its all on demand, so add in a fair whack of kiddie screaming time).

Of course Mistress P may have been judged somewhat cruel when she turned to the lady expecting twins and said "guess thats 24 hours a day for you..."

Personally, the World Health Organization (WMO) recommendation of exclusive breast feeding for 6 months is all we really needed to help us decide if we'd give it a go, though this suggestion is probably based more upon third world requirements rather than first world.

In all credit to the nice-lady-in-charge, she didnt lecture that you must, but recommended setting a goal - 1 month, 3 months, 6 months - and aiming for that first.

Then there was breastfeeding itself.

This is where the problem started.

Each couple were given a "baby" to have some practice on. (In reality a Kmart special doll, but hey, they were free classes, who's complaining.) As everyone was about to start a couple who were running late wandered into the class. AB, being the gentleman he is, noticed a spare baby sitting on the chair next to him.

"You'll be needing one of these" he said, as he picked it up by the leg, gave it a swing and tossed it across the room into the soft handed catch of late-on-the-scene mum.

Nice-lady-in-charge almost had a fit.

"YOU CANT TREAT BABY LIKE THAT!"

Errr... "baby"...? Lady, its a moulded piece of petrochemical.

She was clearly stunned at such behaviour.

But we got the message.

After the flinging episode the breastfeeding exercise went pretty much without a hitch. Mums had to "give it a go", putting the lips of baby to their breast and being shown the best positions to achieve a coupling; either in front with bub rolled onto their side, mums wrists flat, or the wonderfully named "football" position, where the baby is held under the arm, sort of attacking tittie from the side. Kinda like Wayne Carey i guess...

All the while there was a somewhat strange-but-harmless woman and a real, I would venture non-plastic, child sitting in the corner. She at first appeared to be there to offer her thoughts and experiences on matters milk. In reality it seemed all she really wanted to do was get her boozies out and show us breastfeeding in the flesh. Which she did.

This really was turning into a Russ Meyers fillum.

All this stuff on feeding the tike on demand lead, or course, to the discussion on crying, something the little buggers can do for a total of 3-4 hours a day. And hence how to soothe the wailing son of beelzebub. There were all sorts of suggestions - taking it for a walk, giving it a feed, changing its nappy, talking to it quietly, rocking it gently, but when it came to AB's turn, and having recently read about 4 pages of the "happiest baby on the block" (courtesy of Noony and Jo and the Boulder (Colorado) bookstore), he said "shooshing". As in "ssshhhhhhhhhhh....".

Nice-lady-in-charge just stared.

"When holding baby you need to support the head."

Yes mam. I did actually know that. Its just that, well, its a doll. Kmarts moulding of Altona's finest. Wouldn't even get a bit part in I,Robot. Its not real.

But we got the message.

It was then onto another video by the Australian Breastfeeding Association (ABA). Which, to be honest, are a little scarey/kinky in their rabid fascination in getting every tike on a tit. (And the apparently unnecessary nature of the adult male... blokes appeared to be pretty much an accessory item when things get down to ABA tin tacks.)

The video was all great stuff when it started, showing lots of the difficulties that mums may encounter when they try to breastfeed (fair enough - 12 hours with a suckling piglet must be a bugger to the bazookas) and how to overcome them.

But then it firmly entered the "did i really need to see that" territory. Several minutes (well, at least it seemed like several minutes) in great depth on the colour of the mini me's poo, complete with close ups of lots of used nappies. Thank ford we dont have smell-a-vision (though apparently breastfed babys have sweet smelling poo... or is that just a conjob by the ABA?).

Ok, so we wont freak out when Rufs first turdburger looks like Prince William Sound after the Exxon Valdez, or if its a bit green for a few days before turning yellow, or even if his wee goes reddish, briefly, after a bit, but hey... nappy-cam?

The final game of the day was another card execise. This time the couples were handed cards with two statements on them, and it was up to us to agree/disagree/discuss. Things such as "grandparents are wise and should be listened to at all times" or "this is our baby and we welcome advice, but the grandparents have to realise it is us who will make the decisions". (This is a curly one apparently, as the GPs have all been through it before, but a lot of advice given when they were first parents is now considered the root of all evil, parenting wise. e.g., Now: always sleep baby on their backs - the "back to sleep" mantra for prevention of SIDS. Then: babies slept on tummies. Talk to a modern-day midwife on what our folks did and you'd think the entire human race was lucky to survive their parenting at all...)

There were lots of other cards and discussions; sex after pregnancy, breast feeding, types of nappies, and post natal depression. All important things to throw about ideas on. It was then onto open questions, which of course led to...

"How soon after popping one out can mum have a drink - as in booze?"

Nice-lady-in-charge looked a little taken a back. Did she have a class of slushes?

"Well if you are breastfeeding, it goes straight into the milk and baby will get a drunk!"

AB: "Tops - he'll sleep even better!"

Judging by the look from nice-lady-in-charge, and the statement about "little livers", this is probably not deemed a breast feeding positive by the ABA. But hey,...

We got the message.

Thats it. Classes over.

We're on our own...

36 weeks - trippin'

We're entering that twilight zone when everything is pretty close to being ready, its more just about waiting. Even the scheduled hospital visit said Ruf was a "3" (on a scale of 1 to 5) distance into the pelvis (not cervix, thankfully!) and in a posterior position (i.e., his back is against Mistress P's back). Hence its onto the fit ball for some hip gyrations to spin that tike around into a more birth friendly anterior possie. And still we're getting bigger.

One of the traditional must-do's for a couple into their final first-pregnancy month is a last trip away, just the two of you, no kids. Cos, well lets face it, there's a significant chance that this will be the last time we get to spend a child-free long-weekend away (or "mini break" as Bridget Jones would say) until about, oh, maybe,... 2027! (Crikey.)

As is our want we headed down to Sandy Point, near Wilsons Prom in Victoria's South Gippsland region, and rented the very same house in which we were married, "Moovue" (on account of it looking over a cow paddock). Boootiful. We shared the place with a couple of friends who also brought down their baby girl - sorry, toddler: I was corrected that a 1-year old is officially a toddler - so technically, it wasn't a kid free weekend. But hey, we weren't changing the nappies, so I reckon it still counts. (And she's a dear...)

Lots of walking on the amazing beach, swimming in the surf with the fishes, gazing out to sea (see pic), lazing on the couch/deck/grass, and even a spot of (unsuccessful) fishing in the inlet for AB as Mistress P had left the all important fish oil at home.

Friends left a day early, so in the end we had a solid 24 hours for just the two of us, in which we did what any preggy couples do when they're alone: watch a Bollywood film on SBS (mmm... Tania Zaetta...) and eat a microwaved dinner. AB also managed a sublimely relaxing windsurf on the inlet, where we bumped into Tim.

Tim is the Tim Daddo (no, not one of THE Daddos - who all went to AB's school by the way) who once held the world sailing speed record - and who was at Sandy trying to break the new world record and be the first man over the 50 knot barrier in a sailing craft. Tim has chatted to us before on the beach, as AB has done some work for him, meteorlogically-wise, to help their chances.

"How long you here for this time Tim?" said young AB.

"Oh, till Easter. You wanna help out?" said young Tim.

AB: "Might be a bit of a problem - babies due bit before that. Never know though, we could have the kid and a new world record on the same day! How cool would that be!!"

{Mistress P rolls eyes..}

Tim: "Yeah, cool!,... If that happens you'd have to call it '50 knots'! "

AB: "Awwright!"

{Mistress P gives up all hope of understanding males...}

The final day wasn't all standing round on beaches talking to nutty sailing people - though there were some others, one of which (a retired and socks-and-sandals wearing hippie ex-scientist) just looked at Mistress P and announced "You're ready to pop". Also a couple of very nice German backpackers/kitesurfers: "Vere do zoo find wavze? Vee huv no wavze in Germany."

We had heard about some nice kid-friendly beaches at Walkerville, so tootled off there (and Cape Liptrap: see pic right) to check it out.

We didn't find any beaches better for kiddies than the Sandy inlet, but we did meet a lady struggling to put a ginormously heavy plastic kayak on the roof of her car. Thus ensued another interesting conversation....

"Excuse me" she said "can you give me a hand with this thing?"

"Well, i can, she probably cant" AB replied, pointing at Mistress P + Ruf.

"Oh... are you walking in labour dear?"

Apart from not exactly knowing what she meant by "walking in labour dear" - did she think Mistress P was actually in labour(?) - it was also somewhat of a shock to think that 2 people in the space of an hour reckoned shes that close to popping...

People.. we have (just under) four weeks to go.

Having said that, the one thing that has well and truly popped is Mistress P's belly button. Its all the way out now, and when covered by a close fitting T-shirt looks remarkably like a nipple on a third breast. Its quite unnerving and some may say mildly erotic. (There must be a kinky web site out there devoted to such things; "rate-my-belly-nipple.com", surely...)

From the hips down Mistress P looks incredibly, well, normal - must be the preggies pilates, swimmin' with the wimmen, and bike riding she is still doing (cupla days a week from Elwood to Docklands... 13.5km: she cant be stopped, see pic - or even better, the video (15MB)! ) - but she was complaining that none of her skirts fit anymore. Once again, friends to the rescue, this time in the form of young Ms B (soon to be Dr), the master gardener, dessert chef and seamstress.

"Gimme a look" she said, and dragged Mistress P off to the disabled dunny, measuring tape in hand. By Monday there appeared an amazing patterned, burnt orange, ruched-top skirt that fits like a glove, flatters the form and is the envy of all Mistress P's friends;

"No, no, its not Versace, its... Bettio, haute couture."

"rhubarb rhubarb... Ohh.... my... Italian... expensive... rhubarb rhubarb"

Second class

Thursday was second class - no, not a referral to our skills at prospective parenting, rather the second of our three 2-hour classes on what to expect when giving birth and beyond.

This one was a little different from the last. Rather than finishing with a birthing video, it started with a birthing video. Only this time it was one of "man not of woman borne" as the Bard would say. (i.e., a caesarian).

When this was mentioned I was instantly sent into the land of squirm, cos if theres one thing I like even less than seeing a watermelon pooped out a womans front bottom, its watching some geezer in a lab coat cut someone up while they're awake. Cos this is what they do these days with ceasers - by using a spinal block mum can just lie there and feel a bit of tugging and pulling, until suddenly a bloodied bub is miraculously flopped onto their boozies. I know - I saw the video.

Ok, i'll admit, the vid was pretty well done as you never actually saw the gore, just the impression that theres a lot of people hanging about (like around 12) in lab coats doing "stuff". All bright lights and face masks.

But we survived.

There was then lots of talk about how a baby can come out, and why. Firstly stuff about inducing the baby if its taking too long or things get complicated or waters broken - all stuff where there is a risk of complications if its left to nature. Inducement can be via synotocin drip (an artificial form of the hormone oxytocin, which causes contractions, and is almost always used to birth the placenta too), having sex, walking about, or even castor oil and orange juice (ewwwkk... think i'd stick with the shagging).

Then there were the ways of giving birth - naturally of course, or using forceps or suction cups (the preferred option these days if needed) and the cut (caeser).

What AB almost didnt survive was the lectures on the evils of chemical assisted pain relief. Oh lordy.

Now let me say here that the nice lady running the class is, well, very nice. But the game where we were handed cards on the use of "the gas", pethidine or an epidural and their advantages and disadvantages almost had AB leaping out of the chair. Each list of "disadvantages" was about twice as long as the "advantages", but THERE WAS NO RISK LEVEL mentioned. In other words, for epidurals, a severe headache which requires a further medical procedure to alleviate (which we later learned through our questions, that the midwife lady had only ever seen once in all her years of nursing) was given equal weight as the temporary inability to walk about, which always happens.

"Is that a side effect or a risk?" AB asked about one such complication.

I dont think she understood what that meant.

And thats not even mentioning the fact that so much emphasis was on what could happen (without mentioning the level of risk), and virtually no time spent on what good it could do for you (such as being able to sit and read the paper and have the thing pop out, no worries, here's your new life thank you very much). Argh...

As an example... lets, say, that instead of talking about giving birth to your heir (or spare), we're talking about walking in to work via the park. (Do not read if suffering anxiety issues...)

Walking to work via the park

Advantages	Disadvantages
Fresh air	Tiredness
Exercise	Late for work/boss sacks you
Sunshine/Vitamin D	Hit by errant bus/car/unicycle
No Greenhouse gases	Tree falls on head
	Trip on crack in footpath
	Hit by falling meteorite/space junk
	Get thirsty
	Struck by lightning
	Pooped on by a birdy
	Breathe in fumes/carcinogens
	Get sweaty
	Meet kid you teased/now kickboxer
	Wear out shoes

Clearly if we knew nothing, this walk would appear extremely problematic and dangerous, and only a fool would ever consider it..... but in the real world we know the risks of each, and hence (unless you're American) you walk to work through the park whenever you can, cos the disadvantages (multiplied by the risk of each) are still faaaar outweighed by the advantages.

See....?

Having said that, the teacher did admit that virtually all women who have an epidural say its the way to go (mateee...), and that they (and kiddies) dont suffer horrendous future complications, deformities or lives ruined, forced to sue the hospital and crush medicare as we know it just to cover the lifelong nursing fees.

The class finished with another tour of the horse-piddle to show us the rooms that we'll inevitably be visiting in a few weeks time, which is greatly reassuring, before nice-lady teacher (she is, really...) took us to the womens resource library where we borrowed the "Being Dad" DVD -which we've just watched as I type. (Well, the 15 minutes on labour anyway.) When its not showing a woman crowning, its blokes in a pub sinking coldies and trying to outdo each other with all-too-candid details about their respective women's birth experience - probably to the total horror of their significant other. In vino veritas. Top stuff.

But this of course means that we have now, voluntarily, in the comfort of our own home, cant believe i'm saying this... watched yet another woman pooping a watermelon. (Or, as I once heard an African woman quoted as saying;
"It goes in like a banana, comes out like a pineapple.").

Two classes down, one to go. Next week we learn what do post-pop. (Surely the answer is... Panic?!?!)