A week is a long time in...

A week is a long time in poo-itics.

The first week at home was looking like a doddle;
"Hey dude, whats the fuss???"

Little Mike just slept and gave the occasional wimper. Granted these wimpers came at midnight, 3am and 6am, but in general he was true to his name - an (arc)angel.

But then came the start of week 2.

In the lingo of one Kylie Mole (Comedy Company)...
"AWWMIGAWD!"

Suddenly sleeping beauty became the bellowing beast, particularly come afternoon and evening.

"That crying, oh its just colic..." we were told. But then no-one can tell you what exactly colic is.
"Oh, its when they start crying"
Gee. Umm...Thanks(!).

Lucky for us, young Katrina (see pic left) frum UnZed (New Zealand for those without a babel fish), dropped in and stayed for the weekend on her way home from Sydney. Much as we first thought coping with a staying guest so soon after the pop would be the end of us, it infact proved the saviour.

Ms K is Mistress P's UnZed stepmother, but more to the point she is a women of wise words and angelic demenour. He tips and advice soon had Master Mike sleeping like, well, a baby.

Sure, he still gets the occasional "fists-of-fury" rage, where he throws his little hands in the air and thrashes about so hard we've seriously contemplated tossing him in the tub with the dirty jumpsuits, some water and the Hurricane green power laundry liquid (grey water "lawn friendly") and getting a washload done into the bargain, but the last couple of days he has, knock wood, been back to his gentler former self largely thanks to Ms K.

And just maybe we're just learning a few tricks too.

On the sleeping front we've been doing ok. Mistress P is up every 3 hours or so to give him a feed, but we've also been finding that his last little agitation of the night is not so much "I'm fungry, gimme boobie" but rather "I'm grumbly, lets boogie". Hence non-mammaried dad is able to do the "rise and shine" shift and let mum have a rest for another couple of hours.

Of course this grand plan came partially unstuck, after dad came up with the genius idea of combining late night baby sitting with the final of the cricket world cup (well, Australia was going to win after all). Which dragged on and on (somewhat farcically) and into the Jamacian night, meaning dad stayed awake for far too long and hence was officially pronounced buggered-on-arrival the next day. And good fer nuthin. (Not that a baby cares...)

On the Mike front, well the young tike appears to be taking it all in his stride, cept he's skipped a decade and decided he's a teenager already. This primarily takes the form of an akker (i.e., acne) attack. The mite has it all over his face.

Seems this is very common for breast fed babies, as they also injest mums hormones and, in turn, can break out like a luvstruck 14 year old on their first date. It'll pass in a few weeks, we're told.

Other excitments for the lil tacker include meeting his uncle Jim and hence seeing his first real Aussie ute (see pic below), some walks along the beach in the all too balmy April weather, his first trip in a pram, and "enjoying" his longest car trip to date, all the way to the airport and back, complete with a complimentary taxi driver altercation. (But it just wouldnt be Melb airport without a taxi driver altercation...)

Oh, and he has actually - no, I know you wont believe this but trust me... seen his first rain. Tru dinks. (3.8 then 6.0 mm on April 28 and 29, respectively.)

Did we write anything about how much sleep we were (not) gettizzzzZZZZZZZZZ...

(Goodnight...)

Sir Change-alot

Thats it.

After a second IV failing and the poor little tike requiring the last cupla doses of anti-biotics via intra-muscular injection (ouch...), the horse-piddle gave all and sundry a clean bill of health and frogmarched us out the door.

(No, actually, they all said wonderful goodbyes and wished us the best - the midwifes and doctors at the Royal Wimmens were frankly, and simply, magnificent. Thank You.)

The only last minute heartstopper was when a new pediatrician started with the final check up and subsequent (honourable) discharge. She lent over, looked Mike carefully up and down, and pronounced in a carefully measured tone;

"Mmmm... this ones clearly suffering from a severe case of cuteness."

His first car ride was wholly uneventful, despite various friends suggesting it would be sheer panic for the driver with such special cargo.

It was noted that little Mike in his brand new (council hired) baby capsule, complete with 5 point rally harness, monocoque survival cell, energy absorbing connectors, fully padded surrounds, flame resistant jump suit and naturally floppy body, was clearly the safest occupant in the car. If not all of Melways page 77, or indeed the road to Baghdad airport for that matter.

Still, Mistress P requested a stop at Green Point to check him over, just to make sure...

Home and a quick show-off to the neighbours. Then it was down to reality, which pretty much consists of feeding, sleeping, pooing and weeing. Same for Mike too.

In fact it's in the downstairs department that Mike has learnt his first party trick.

This takes the form of doing wee-wees on everything he possibly can about 10 seconds after pants down for a nappy change. Without fail. Of course dad must have the memory of a goldfish, cos he continually forgets to place a hand towel or some other prophylactic device over the lads trouser snake, immediately after nappy removal. As Maxwell Smart would say, "ahhh... the old wee wee on everything in sight trick. I fell for that one twice last week."

Or in dads case, today.

(AB was also heard to exclaim: "You know, this is the first willy not-attached-to-me I've ever touched!" And some may say thats a good thing too - not that theres anything wrong with it.)

The first night home proved to be a godsend for Mistress P, who despite feeds every 3 hours, announced she hadnt slept so well in a week. (In the horse-piddle at night, if your bub isnt screaming, someone elses is - or a nurse is trying to jab you/baby with something and/or asking you if you're sleeping.) By the second night Mike was sleeping for up to 4 hours straight, and hence even dad is getting more rest, in total, than during the mad horse-piddle daze of the previous week.

Still, easing into the new life seems to be the order of the day. As AB emailed friends, a typical afternoon goes something like:

"Right now (3:22pm) Mike and I are sitting on the deck as mum catches some shut eye. We're enjoying the sun and dreaming of a cupla knots more SE and maybe a windsurf. Mike says "wa wa wa" which I think means he's gunna wimp it and pike on the sail; either that or he wants a booby."

Despite this scene from happy families, AB and Mistress P have just discovered they're the worst parents in the world.

Lil Mike had a feed and was sleeping away. Then he was bellowing. Then AB calmed him. Then he bellowed some more. Then AB calmed him. This went on for some time.

Mistress P: "Did you check his nappy?"
AB: "Nuh - didn't you?"
Mistress P: "Nuh."

Oh dear.

Upon subsequent inspection the poor little tike looked like he'd been marinating his bum in Werribee's finest for about an hour. Just dont tell the local council maternal health care nurse or the Sandringham horse-piddle midwife, who have already visited on the first two days and told us how well we were all doing...

By way of redemption, AB read Mike the sail reviews from the latest issue of BOARDS magazine. (We've decided to skip the cat-in-the-hat stage and go straight to the literary heavyweights.)

Home is where he heart is. If not the boy.

The hump days...

It was bound to happen.

The amazing emotions and hormones of Days 1 + 2 over, and with the arrival of the mothers milk following the happy colostrum haze, there came a few tears and the "This is impossible..." cries. The (in)famous day 3 baby blues.

Every mum worth their estrogen has gotta get 'em.

Which werent exactly helped by Vampira, the wicked witch of the night nurse rounds. Actually, she wasnt that bad... After telling Pandora off for having a screaming baby in the wee small hours, and again for letting the baby wizz everywhere while being changed, she said she'd do the next nappy. Which is indeed the nicest possible thing anyone can do for a sleep deprived new-mum...

Nice... and somewhat funny when she changed him on the bed, with Little Mike screaming the partitions down and doing wee-wee all over the blankets.

By day 4 though, Mistress P was her old self and looking every inch the beautiful new and ever-capable yummy mum. You'd have thought she'd been doing it all for years. (Some may say, having put up with AB, she had.)

On the Little Mike front, the lad has made the turnaround and is now putting on mass, with a latest 24 hour gain of 30 grams. Ok, so thats about the weight of an HB pencil, but hey, it was his second day of weight gain in a row and proof positive of the amazing job he and Mistress P are doing on the breastfeeding front.

In fact now that the true mothers milk is coming down, Mike has been gorging himself silly on the stuff - to the point of subsequently and regularly falling into a drunken stupor. Quite literally (see pic above left). Most times he falls asleep with a mouthful of boob (classy lad), and has to be reminded by way of poking (or chin rubbing) of his contractual obligations under the "stop mum getting rocks in the knockers" clause of his Australian Workplace Agreement (signed voluntarily of course).

On the statistics front, we finally worked out how to read the relevant parts of "the blue book" - his maternal health care guide. And it reveals that he is around the 75th percentile for weight, as well as for height. Hows that for well proportioned... and above ordinary? (For those in need of a memory jog - a percentile is simply a ranking out of 100. As he is 75th percentile, it means he is taller and heavier than 75% of the newborn population. But it doesnt necessarily mean he is 25% taller or heavier than the average...)

Healthwise the lil tacker has been getting better and better, with good blood test results, healthy skin, more lively manner and little outward sign of the earlier infection. However all the required prodding, probing and puncturing has left him with an aversion to being naked ("Argh... they can get at my pink bits!").

This wasnt helped by his IV failing, and hence needing to be swapped into the opposite arm. Not only did he scream blue murder, but he eventaully needed a big wig pediatrician to be specially summond to get the damn thing into a new vein. All up it took over an hour. I hope the nurses OH&S rules required the use of earplugs - we're talking sustained jet engine/Motorhead concert noise levels here.
On the upside though, at least Lil Mike can now suck on his favourite right fist again without the attached dripline blue plastic thingy punching him (or Aunty Mish - pic left) in the eye. Its the simple things in life you know...

So there we have it. A healthy, happy mum and bub combination set, with only a completed course of anti-biotics between them and returning to their humble abode in the Baghdad-end-of-Hampton.

Cross fingys.

A boronia megastigma by any other name...

We wish to introduce you to:

Michael Henry Watkins (a.k.a Mike)

Michael cos we like it, and we know some great Michaels and Mikes.

Henry is the middle name of Mistress P's special stepfather - with whom Mike shares a birthday - as well as the middle name of her BASE jumping daredevil uncle. Plus, well, we just think its kinda groovy...

And as AB says: "MHW - Mmmm... thats not a bad login..."

Little Mike's now just over 48 hours old, and doing very well indeed.

His temperature is down to normal (36.8degC), and his CRP (Protein) tests are now low indicating that any bacterial infection either wasn't there in the first place, or is being/been beaten off by his anti-biotics. (But he'll still finish the course so we're in for 5 days regardless.)

Top stuff!!

Oh, and he has been measured and reweighed. Hes a whopping great... 52cm long! (Only 132 to go and we have a Carlton 6 footer.) And his weight has only dropped 300 grams, which being about 7.5% of body weight means he's well under the 10% loss thats seen as any need for concern, and is infact a very healthy normal kinda loss.

The boys a champ, as is his mum, cos it's her feeding thats doing him so well.

So well in fact that he's already catching the eyes of the ladies...

Just down the corridor we bumped into Courtney and Dan, who were not only in our birthing classes, but Mistress P and C were soccer teammates in their glory days. Now C+D have little Freya, born 1am today and doing just dandy.

And last seen checking out our lad - who remained cooly aloof (/asleep).

Mike - you little tease you.

Reference: Boronia Megastigma

Postscript: Nana wrote him his first poem while mum was still labouring...

There is a young fellow called Mike
Who was such an obstinate tyke
Didn't want to come out
To see what it's about
But he'll find there is so much to like!

1.45 am
16/4/07

just a quickie...

End of day 1 in the little mans life...

The poor lil tacker has a bit of a hot head (37.2-37.4degC) and hence may have an infection, so we'll be staying in the horsepiddle for a little longer, but as we've caught such things early it should be no real problem - more precautionary.

The biggest problem for him appears to be the IV they have put in his right hand so they can deliver the anti-biotics. Seems the very hand they put it in is the one he loves to suck on - and he just cant grasp the concept of becoming a leftie. That other hand is just a foreign object to him... And without his own inbuilt pacifier he gets pretty cranky. Oh well... cie la vie.

Mum is doing great. A bit sore downstairs (she really did push HARD!) but on the whole... well, shes just rock. Dad is slowly clawing back a little sleep, and really should be at the horse-piddle right now. He's done his first nappy change and it was an amazing dark green tar - with no smell. (He took a photo, but will save that for Ron. (Much) Later Ron.)

Bloody incredible all round,...

(Ok, my brekky is finished... thats it for now. Wish all us luck!)

Its a Boy!

Well what can i say... Mistress P is just incredible.

The trip in to horse-piddle for what we thought was just a check up ended up with the doc saying;
"Why werent you induced on Friday???
...tossing away all the charts and admiting Mistress P on the spot for inducement.

We were, well, shocked, quite frankly.

Things pretty much (didnt) go to plan from then on... but then again these last 2 weeks have all been a little skew-wiff.

Still, by the end of it all (full story later...), including 2 lots of inducing gel, no pain relief for 2-3 hours, gas and the TENS device for about 9 hours, and then an epidural for the remaining 15 hours, to be finished off with a trip into surgery for what everyone was "pretending" was for Ruf to be suction cupped out, but all and sundry thought it was really for a ceasar.

Mum, and I guess Ruf, had other ideas... and Mistress P (with AB at her head resplendant in white overalls, hair net and little sneaker covers, clamped to his appointed stool in the surgery with over a dozen people hovering - most for the ceasar) pushed like a Mack truck and, on the third attempt and with the surgeon yanking on the plunger attached to Ruf's head...

POP!

Out he came.

Everyone was amazed, but none more so, it would seem, than Mistress P!!

"Look at that!! Look at that!!" she kept saying as the little man (ok, we still havent exactly decided upon a name!!) was shown to her before being whisked away to be cleaned up and for mum to be stitched. (Yup... the dreaded episiotomy... AB got a look "down there" and it wasnt an image he'd like to be conjuring at times of peace and solitude.)

A bootiful bouncing baby boy... happy and healthy (well, with a little bit of a temperature...). Born 21:17, Monday April 16, 2007.

A goodly size, even for one so cooked (it was 41 weeks, 6 days after all...): 3.96kg, or 8lb10 in the old measure, I believe.

Mum doing well - very well considering all that the poor girl has gone through. She was stoked... and raring to go, even more amazing considering she'd had over 3.5 hours of pushing alone. She is one unique individual that Mistress P - I'm so proud (nay, jealous...) that my son has those genes!

Speaking of which,.. he's got long thin fingers (mum reackons thats from dad), bootiful amazing lips (definately mum), flattish nose (dads family trait - or maybe just from all the pushing!) and a long and not really all that chubby body (both).

Anyway, a fuller story - and hopefully name - will emerge over the coming days.

Suffice to say, it wasnt a walk in the park, but the end result is simply incredible. All 3 of the midwives we had were just fantastic (thanks Natalie, Natalie and Rhian).

And it really is the miracle of birth.

Given what i've just seen (i.e., what women go through to bring us all into the world) - If you dont find your mum today and give her a great big kiss, you're a bastard.

Check (of our) mate.

Friday and a visit to the Royal Wimmens for a scheduled check up.

The end result of pushing and probing and tests on Ruf's heart and mums "contraction" muscles...?

Well Ruf is just fine and dandy, heart pumping along at 130-150 beats per minute (that may be Lance Armstrong up the Mont Ventoux, but for a baby that's simply resting), a fairy normal fundal length of 41 cm (given 1cm per week being the standard), and sitting a little side on, so still vaguely posterior but not completely. All pretty damn good really.

Cept he's still in.

Likewise, Mum is also doing well health wise, with a gradually lowering belly though yet to be having any contractions/braxton hicks.

The only downside from the tests was the "lower end of normal" volume of amniotic fluid that young Ruf is floating about in, which by this stage may include a fair proportion of the little tackers own wee . (Being a certified windsurf nut, AB is a self confessed wetsuit wee-er from wayback, and hence reckons this is an entirely normal state for the fruit of his loins.)

Seems this low level on the amniotic dipstick is what you can begin to expect as you go over time and the placenta approaches its use-by date. The tests showed the volume wasnt low enough to need inducement straight away, but we'll be back again on Sunday to check it out again just to make sure. And if its still ok but Ruf's not out naturally then...

Tuesdays the day.

Yup,... April 17; smack bang on Mistress P's birthday.

That said, its still entirely possible that we'll be awoken in the wee small hours by a body naturally pushing Ruf towards the light at the end of the tunnel.

And to give the chance of this natural push a little boost along, Mistress P has had her mum (a trained therapeutic masseuse) giving all the pressure points that correspond to "wimmens bits" a solid pounding. Even if this doesnt bring on bub, all this attention sure as hell makes mum-to-be feel great...

This is always best if things come naturally, as medical (as opposed to lawn mowing or curry eating) inducement brings with it some elevated risks, including an increased incidence of "emergency" ceasarians and excessive bleeding. Still, once the risks from inducement are less than the risks of leaving bub to fend for himself in less than optimal surroundings, then its time to go. And they are only risks of course, certainly not certainties.

Inducement takes 3 forms. A gel to "ripen" the cervix and open it up, which can induce labour itself but generally just means that the doc can get a better stab (literally) at the amniotic sack so they can break the waters, something which again can get the labour cranking. Finally, if that hasnt got young Ruf's attention, a drip containing oxytocin (the hormone that the body produces naturally to instigate labour; and also may well be the love drug...) is tapped in and away you go.

In theory. Doesnt work perfectly every time.

So. A bit more foot rubbing.
Maybe a tryout on the lawn mower.
Possibly a weekend drive on a bumpy road.
And it that desnt work...
AB's got "The Meaning of Life" on weekly rental.
(To remind Ruf it's easy to get out - we'll turn down the sound at the bit where the kiddies are sold for scientific experiments.)

Postscript: While doing the heartbeat tests, the nurse popped in and said it'd take a tad longer as bub needed to relax a little. When she left, AB leant over and gave a little calming pep talk into Mistress P's belly ...and Ruf's heartrate dropped from 150 to 130. (True dinks.)

Cell block H

Sometimes things just flip your mind right out.

Tuesday night, and Mistress P's canoe polo friends were gathering to have a quiet beer in-lieu-of game (it being Easter and all that, the comp was off), and hence we tootled on up to sleepy North Boring(/Balwyn) to check out the action.

Baby action that is.

We arrived to be greeted by a bleary eyed teammate (Damo) and his equally, if not more so, bleary eyed ambulance-driver wife, plus the source of the bleary-eye-edness; young Jonathon.

Jonathon was born on April 4, two days earlier than expected, after mum went into labour on April 3; i.e., Rufous' due date.

And then it hit us.

Jonathon was "younger" than Rufous.
But while Jono was "out", Ruf was still "in". (Mums tum that is.)

It was (almost) enough to make AB burst into a rendition of "On the inside the sun still shines..." (a.k.a the Prisoner theme song). And certainly sobering enough for both Mistress P and AB to foregoe the beers and opt for the Milo. (Literally.)

The following day a letter arrived saying that a wee-wee test of Mistress P's needed to be repeated, so this was taken as an excuse to do a "dry" run to the horse-piddle.

AB went into action mode.
"Bags in..."
Check.
"Pillows in..."
Check.
"Food in..."
Check.
Set stopwatch.
GO!

We took alternative route A, which saw the Suby swing into Caradigan St Carlton (i.e., the Royal Wimmens emergency enterance) exactly 35 minutes later, with AB having a) performed the appropriate "long loose fingers, slack jaw, shoulders down" relaxation mantra for Mistress P at suitable intervals on the way, and b) "enjoyed" the Immaculate Collection (Best of Madonna) CD for the duration. (But was later sprung humming "Into the groove" quite subconsciously...)

And best of all without losing the patient(s). Mistress P was very happy. For a moment.

"So did you bring the list of things to do?"

AB: "Errr..... what list??"

The wee-wee test was done without mishap, and then it was off to lunch in the old courting ground (Lygon St) where Mistress P (and AB) was welcomed, prodigal son-like (it had been several years), by Alex the waiter from Papa Ginos.

Ahhh... it was just like being a student again. Only now we could afford to tip. (Clever Alex.)

So no baby yet, though the immediacy of Ruf's arrival has been clarified by Thursday lunchtimes (pie and) Strawberry Big M... No, nothing to do with milk dribbling down bikini-cleavage (ahh... those 1970's calendars...), rather the carton had a use-by date of April 22, which is 5 days after April 17 - Mistress Ps's birthday and current date of inducement. (Though we'll see what the doc says about that on our horse-piddle visit tomorrow (Fri).)

This was a nice, albeit subtle, reminder that Ruf, by (amniotic) hook or by crook, is less than a milk curdle away from joining Jono and us,...

"On the outside".

(MMmmmm..... flavoured milk,.... MMmmmmm Big M.)

41 weeks - Playing extra time

Still waiting...

Its now a week past the due date and still nothing, nada, zip - Rufous is still in there and refusing to budge (see pic right: no, it really is that shape). Clearly we're just giving him too cushy a ride and hence he now appears to be just laughing at us.. or worse. Last night he was pushing "something" directly into the inside of Mistress P's belly button, which upon inspection appeared suspiciously like he was giving us the finger. (I'm being serious here... it felt like a, or even "the", finger...)

And being a week overdue the phone/email has been running hot with "whats happened??" enquiries. Which is great, and helps fill the day now that...
We've decided upon a name!! (But we can only tell you it _isnt_ Rufous.)

Neither of us could ever have believed that selecting a moniker could ever be so hard or take so much bloody time. If it wasnt the name of some bloke one of us hated/loved/teased at school, became a despot ruler of a third world country or "looked funny", it was a name that formed a strange lilting rhym or started or ended in a "t" (and hence "Twat-kins").

Or, of course, we just didnt like it (or as Monty Python would put it; It "wets it's nest").

Between us we poo-poo'ed virtually the entire "top 100" names in the Victorian Birth, Deaths and Marriages list for the past 3 decades. Its not that we're picky or anything - but the next one had better be a girl (we've pre-selected a name already, just in case the ultrasound was ultra-wrong).

Of course there has continued to be some activity apart from baby naming. Mostly, for Mistress P, this has taken the form of walking. Along the beach with both mum and mum-in-law (bottom pic), along the Yarra River (could have done without the snake incident though - see the postscript at the end of previous post) and along the foreshore bushland of Bayside, for periods of up to one and half hours. Stirling stuff indeed.

But right now though she is crawling. Literally. In circles round the loungeroom floor. No, not some bizarre "making a connection with the baby" deal, but 'supposedly' 10 minutes of crawling can help spin the tike from posterior to anterior. Supposedly. (Maybe we will take JM's tip and tell her that washing the car will do it too... the Suby really does need a once over.)

AB on the other hand is finding he wakes each morning with an attack of the "should I really be at work?" guilts, and has taken to jumping on the mountain bike every other day and heading off along the Beach Rd bikepath for an hour or twos ride, assuring Mistress P that he is only a mobile phone call away at all times.

This faith was tested, however, when Mistress P went for an early morning stroll along the beach with her mum, only to see AB punting along the nearby track but out of bellowing distance. A call was made...
And AB just sailed by oblivious to all crazy-frog ringtones and accompanying semaphore signals (i.e., Mistress P's delerious dancing up and down and arm waving). He has hence been forced to turn the phone up to 11 upon threat of kneecapping/divorce/changing every nappy when Rufous goes to solids.

So despite all the best intentions and pain in the pubic symphysis, and to the apparent dismay of most folks returning from their Easter break, Ruf has stayed put a week after the date originally pencilled in the diary. With all the old wives tales now tested and debunked (kinda like starring in our own episode of Mythbusters - minus the explosion at the end), the next step is the Friday meeting with the Docs at the horse-piddle. This in itself presents a dilemma.

Do we induce on that day if they suggest so, and hence take on the dreaded curse of Friday the 13th, or...
Do we wait the extra days(/daze) until 2 weeks past Due - the latest they let you go over in this day and age - and hence Mistress P is forced to give birth on... her own birthday??

(And we keep being assured that all this waiting is the easy bit...)

The carrot or the stick?

We can now tell you that sex, hot curry, brisk walks, pressure points, full moons and donuts do not neccessarily induce labour.

(Or were we not supposed to try them all at the same time?)

The above would make it plainly obvious that we're still sitting and waiting and wondering when young Rufous will grace us with his presence. (It really is a trifle boring son.) Hence we've experimented with various methods, including a sub-set of the following:

1) Sex. The story goes that this is a sure fire winner cos dad's pearl jam contains prostaglandin (synthetic prostaglandin is the stuff used to induce labour) and the female orgasm is contraction-like. Sounds good to me.

However a somewhat significant dent in the theory is a recent study (Schiffer et al 2006) that suggests people having sex after 37 weeks actually have a slightly longer pregnancy. (Though the difference is not statistically signifcant.) On the bright side though, another study (Tan et al 2006) suggest that having regular sex after 37 weeks tends to reduce the need for mums to be induced at 41 weeks. So, doesnt appear to work instantly, but can't hurt overall. Yup... far more DIY science required.

2) Spicy food. AB cooked up a mean green veal curry (with thinly sliced red capsicum, zucchini, carrot, coconut cream, a little fish sauce and touch of sugar, stirred through singapore noodles...) all to no avail. About all such a meal would probably do is make the labour induced nausea etc even more annoying and likely to piss off mum-to-be when she tastes it for the second time around in the labour ward. Not to mention the Jonny Cash effect ("....and it burns burns burns, the ring of fire, the ring of fire..").
The curry was damn good if you dont mind me saying so... (and the noodles suitably high carb, which would actually help energy levels through the labour itself).

3) Go for a long brisk walk. Well we've been doing this nearly every day just cos we're officially bored out of our skulls hanging around at home/the beach is relatively close, and as yet, it appears to have done sod all cept wear out the Dunlop volleys. Sure, lotsa stretching and loosening up of the nethers is prolly a good thing, but as for getting Ruf out; seems like its got Buckley's.

4) Wait for the full moon. "You know, like, the moon governs the tides, like, and the baby is in water and, like, man, tides like pull water and, like, this will get the labour started.... dude." Oh poppycock. Do the scale analysis (dude). And being Easter, which is all about the moon (oh yeah, and some religous bloke and a cross) we should therefore have popped days ago. The moon... ay kurumba.

5) Mow the lawn. The pet theory of someone who has more intelligence than one might expect for someone proposing such a methodology, though granted his kid did come 5 weeks early when he wasnt even in town. Then again, it does have both pushing and walking, and it gets your lawn all peachy for added effect. Ok, maybe we'll try this when we get a little more rain (mmmm...), a little more grass, and hence a little more Victa resistance. As it stands, you may as well mow the concrete.

6) Orange juice and castor oil. The idea here is that you scoll this concoction down and if it doesnt come right back at ya, then it'll come right out of the back of ya. The subsequent and some may say uncontrollable desire to fully evacuate the poop-chute at regular intervals will also translate into a desire to empty other parts of the female anatomy- e.g., the womb. We arent all that keen to try this as we have a 40 minute drive ahead of us, dependant upon traffic, and mum-to-be doesnt want to be caught short. Or get it caught in her shorts.

7) Neck massage - see the previous post and the nice Chinese massage man. Seems some people believe that there are certain pressure points on the body which can induce labour. However none of these seem to include the neck, shoulders or back, and hence said nice Chinese massage man was probably just worried about his shag pile if the waters burst by chance. We've now been rubbing Mistress P at a spot 4 "mothers-fingers" above the inside ankle for at least 1 minute and are yet to induce a single contraction. What a dud. What would 2000 years of Chinese medicine/a billion people know anyway??
(PS: Now Mistress P tells us that she was riding her bike all funnylike cos a pressure point for labour is also in between the thumb and forefinger - and I thought she was just all "hey mum, no hands!" just cos she was a ruddy great showoff...)

8) "Jump up and down..." the nice stranger yelled to us at the Ricketts Point cafe when they overheard us telling some friends that we were actually due days ago. Thanks, but Mistress P's internals/our house stumps are only so strong.

9) Take a long drive on a bumpy road. Sorry... the Ruby Sub-a-rooby is just too smooooooth on the gravel. Maybe when we get the "sporty" (read no suspension) Corolla back from Mistress P's visiting mum...

10) Dangle a Tim Tam down "there". We're not sure whether this is a Kaz Cooke'ism or just the deluded suggestion of a Tim Tam crazed work collegue, but the idea is to tempt the bugger by wafting joys of the outer world by his "front door". As AB correctly observed, Rufous is a bloke and his father's son, ipso-facto, a donut would be a far more useful food stuff for "dangling". (It didnt work. NB: We only tried cinnamon.)

11) "Get her to wash your mates car." I suspect this was simply so said mate (hello JM) could get his car washed. Doesnt he know such activity is illegal in this drought?
"Mate, they wouldn't arrest a pregnant women..."

Further ideas welcome any time. (But maybe not from JM.)


-----------------------
Postscript: Sunday 8 April
Since the post above it has also been suggested that we try giving mum-to-be a ruddy great shock. Well we can now confidently say that that does sweet-fanny-adams as well...

Mistress P and AB went for a little stroll by the Yarra River, from Bellbird picnic ground along the gravel walkway under the grey-headed flying fox camp (the ones chased from the Bot Gardens a cupla years back). When they arrived at the end of the formed path they continued on the well worn goat track by the edge of the river, heading upstream, with Mistress P taking the lead.

All of a sudden AB spotted it.

"STOP!!!"

Mistress P dutifully stopped...
...with her foot (in protective thongs) landing literally four inches directly in front of a 3 foot long (tiger or eastern brown) snake that was basking in the sun beside the track. {Olive grey on top, yellowish below, smallish head.}

Shite.

"GO!" said AB!

Mistress P stepped forward at the same instant the snake spun and headed into the bushes. It was only then that she got a view of it too - and subsequently almost pooped herself. (As did AB.)

With apologies to Steve Irwin, and with a modicum of understatement: "Crikey."
(But still no baby...)

Time Gentlemen...

Well it's come and it now appears to be going, uneventfully.
The Due Date that is.

In medical parlence today was "The Day", but as the statisticians have (correctly) forecast, there was only ever about a 5% chance of it actually occuring within this 24 hour block. There was still a greater chance today than any other day (if you dont stratify it for age, fitness, or number of previous births that is), it's just that the birthing bell curve is pretty damn wide - from 37 to 42 weeks.

The 40 week mark was celebrated with the end of work (for now) for AB, and a trip to the shared-care doc (AB gets excited when he goes, cos her name is remarkably similar to "Jennifer Anniston"...), who was somewhat surprised to see us there, but happy none-the-less that everyone was looking so well. Still, Mistress P's belly was prodded probed, poked and generally felt up. The diagnosis?

Still a normal sized bub with a normal bub heart rate (140 bpm), head down and 3/5 of the way into the pelvis and, best of all, no longer posterior (i.e., Rufous' spine against Mistress P's spine) but rather swivelled at least part way round and nearing the far superior (read: easier to get out) anterior position, all set for ejection. Mum-to-be was also declared to be in tip top shape with a equally normal and relaxed systolic blood pressure of 120.

Normal. Cant get much better than that.

The subsequent wander about the city afterwards was arguably worth the price of admission(/parking fee) alone. At the Bodyshop, where Mistress P dropped in to check out some fragrances, a shop assistant took one look at "the belly", ceased her chat with a Big Issue seller, and leapt in P's direction.

Miss Bodyshop: "Wow... that looks AMAZING! When are you due?"

P: "Errr.... today."

Miss Bodyshop: "WHHHAAT!! You're incredible, AND you're walking....{yadda yadda yadda}"

Err.. yes, walking. This enthusiasm soon spread to the 2 other shop assistants and a fellow customer, all of whom wished Mistress P luck and good fortune as she fought her way out the door and away from all the adulation. Just picture a Schapelle Corby pre-trial media scrum...

This scene was repeated in slightly different form at a bike store that AB wandered into to get some new jockey wheels. Only this time, after asking the question and subsequently being told "Actually, it's due today" the young-gun shopkeep just stood there, frozen, stared at the belly and went...

"WOW!"

Several times... trancelike.

AB assured him all was ok and that as he had polished wood floors nothing would stain if she popped. He just said:

"WOW!"; again.

AB was so taken with these reactions that he tried to talk Mistress P into a trip to Southland just so they could repeat the scene over and over. Mistress P had in fact visited the mythical Fountain Lakes the day before and wasnt all that keen on going back, having been run outta town after enquiring about a Chinese back massage.

"When u doo?" asked the nice Chinese massage man.

"Tomorrow..." was the reply.

"NO MASSAGE FOR YOU!" {Picture the soup Nazi scene from Sienfeld.}

"Well how about just a quick neck and shoulder rub??"

...he ran off to check with a collegue...

"NO MASSAGE FOR YOU!"

Cant argue with that. And we guess it's mildly reassuring that they had some medical standards. (Or did they just have white shagpile flooring?)

So instead of Fountain Lakes they went to Elwood beach for some bright sunshine and a relaxing walk along the foreshore.

"Isnt that the Elwood Sailing Club webcam up there???" said AB, pointing on high.

{"Oh no... " thought Mistress P, thinking back to the weekend when AB had her starring on the big screen in Fed Square (see top pic).}

AB hurriedly grabbed the mobile, rang an unsuspecting workmate, and soon had Mistress P starring on the computer monitors of their poor salt-mine-slaving colleagues (see bottom pic... thanks Ms B!) - and said workmate unable to make a full sentence without resorting to giggling.

The day ended with a chat with neighbour Wendy, a bit of tooling about with work emails, some pondering of BAS statements, and a nice little afternoon granny nap. (For AB also.)

Oh well...maybe tomorrow.
(Chance: 4.8%)

NB: The conditional probability (i.e., if you have made it this far then whats the liklihood of popping tomorrow?) would surely be at least double the 5%... (lies, damn lies, and statistics...)

Hurry up and wait

It would be the easiest joke in the world to have started this post with; "We've just had our baby. Given what looks strangely like a USB connector slot in its wrist, we suspect somethings gone skew-iff. The doctors assure us its evolution in action and we've just bred the super human of the future, possibly the result of Andrew resting the wireless laptop over his goolies as he types. ("It keeps them warm.") Cant say much more as we've signed an exclusive agreement with Today Tonight for the story. Our only disappointment is that now Naomi Robson has left it cant all be filmed with Rufous clinging to her safari suit."

And then remind you its April Fools Day.

In reality we're still sitting about and waiting. With 6672 hours of pregnancy down, we're now only 48 hours away from the due date... though Mistress P has a "feeling" that it might be a little longer than that: one of those "womens intuition" things. (But then again she has muttered that Monday (i.e., tomorrow) might be a nice time as well.)

She's also been wondering aloud if AB is undergoing some form of male nesting.

This is mainly based upon the fact that for the past month he's been acting in the role as quasi-2IC at work, with the added "benefit" of no one taking over his normal job. As a result he's been busier than a blue arsed fly, getting home late and mumbling about "bloody business plan", "damn one-off-bids" and "what day is it??" Plus he's been all go on the weekends, some-may-say unnecessarily mowing the dirt (he claims Hampton East - "the Baghdad end of Hampton" - has managed just 1mm below average rain this month, so theres almost a tinge of green...) and attempting to "fix stuff".

And whats wrong with that???

He does admit that he feels a little more "responsible" these days, and hence may well be subconsciously stocking the cave with wilderbeast just in case.

The other thing he's feeling is a strange sense of waiting that he last experienced when his dad was crook with cancer of the cactus kind.

You know somethings gunna happen that'll change your life forever, but you kinda can't believe it will. Happen that is.

At least this time when he spies Mistress P stroking the belly (unlike when he gazed at his father hand feeding the magpies in the backyard) he knows this a big positive result. And smiles. Yin and yang, swings and roundabouts... cie la vie.

Mistress P on the other hand is just starting to get sick of the whole damn big tummy/hanging around thing, plus getting somewhat fearful of the stretchy looking marks on her belly. Shes also sleeping a lot and eating like a dog lost in the PAL factory. (Dont dare put your arm between her and a piece of hedgehog slice...you have been warned.)

Not to mention (as has been before) the heat shes giving off, quite literally. With the calories she (well, actually they) are burning, AB is pondering a way to cash in on this natural energy source and return it all to the national grid.

So... no birth yet, clocks still ticking.

Just not on April Fools Day please.
(A USB connector will surely be out of date by the time he's 5 anyway.)