"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.
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