Gordon Ramsey, Holiday videos... and a cupla extra pics.

Its been as many weeks gone since the Qld/NSW stormchaser trip as weeks actually on the trip, but we're still pretty stoked about it all - hence some extra pics and a few videos; see down below.

Aside from that the recent highlights, boy wise, have included a) him telling dad off, and b) him getting covered in a rash that looks like he should be shunned into a leper clinic.
But we're not that heartless.

Yet.

Apparently it is something called Pityriasis Rosea, is non-contagious (and no, nothing to do with swine flu) and is just related to a virus that he picked up somehow, somewhere, but really shouldn't have cos he's somewhat shy of the typical 10-35 age group. But it does leave a nasty set of reddy pimply things that got the day care centre so concerned when they didnt know what it was that they asked dad to come and collect him early.

He's not phased by it all mind you, and is still running about playing guitar like Murray and generally being cock-a-hoop with the world. Only more spotty.

That just leaves the telling off...

Yes, well, this is one that dad's not so proud of.

Works been a bit stressful and as dad was now home with the boy on a school day he read his email while the boy played with blocks or wiggles or something or other on the other side of the room.

As the aforementioned email didnt contain much merriment, dad muttered under his breath....
"oh f%$k..."

Boy immediately turned round:
"Dont say f%$k daddy... dont say f%$k"
And promptly went back to his toys.

Errr... Righty oh.

(But it does beg the question, who has been saying "f%$k" and how does the boy know that dad did a bad bad thing?)

On the Sissy front shes now at the stage where if mum spoons dad in bed, she (as in Sissy) gets all jealous/claustrophobic, and continually gives dad kicks, elbows and assorted hits in the back and/or kidneys till he backs off and gives her more space.

Though of course she's also kicking and elbowing mum from the inside at the same time - killing two birds with one stone (or knee in this case) so it seems.

But enough of the internal calisthenics and Gordon Ramsey language lesson - heres some more pics and movies from the rapidly-fading-into-the-distant-past SE Qld/NE NSW trip.

Pics:
Horsing around at The Pass - Byron Bay...
















Riding the "yellow wiggle" pedal train ride at the Southport adventure playground, Gold Coast
















With mum, Yaya (grandma), and whats left of the GoldCoast beach after the storm...
















Swinging in the basket swing, Southport...
















At this moment, every person in Australia was in front of them. (i.e., family standing on the most easterly point of the Australian mainland)
















Making a big red car out of sand (with mums help...), Byron Bay

















Movies:
The (in)famous Big Red Car ride!!



And a new use for bike hoops!




Can't forget rides on Dorothy's cups!



And finally the little yellow car (pedaled by a preggas mum!)

Week 30 - The Babymoon (if thats what the pre-birth holiday is called)

Its been a long time between drinks for the blog, so in a desperate bid to catch up, we give you a collection of short stories written during the recent Griswald family vacation to the Gold Coast and Byron Bay. All coinciding with the wildest weather in the regions since 1974 (tru dinks).

We’re all a bit unsure about buddism and blasphemy, but being the hinterland behind Byron, and being a day of tootling round in the car, we ended up at a fancy garden that was all peace and light and crystals.

And buddha statues.

After a hearty lunch we wandered off into the gardens to the big buddha – all 12 feet of him – with his legs crossed and one hand raised, palm out.

“Cyril Squirrel!!” squealed the boy (Cyril Squirrel being a character from the “Maisey” series of books – and apparently a dead ringer for Buddha)

“err… I guess…” said mum

“Cyril Squirrel High Five!” proclaimed boy, looking up at Buddhas raised open palm.

(“Is that some form of blasphemy?” mum asked dad. “Buggered if I know – damn funny I reckon” came the reply, as dad posed Mike giving buddah a bit of flesh.)

Mum had suffered the morning through her first ever bout of braxston hicks (though she didn’t realise until the afternoon when she crept into the Byron ABC book shop and read it up in one of the preggy books – they must hate not having a library in town), so come evening when they were all stretched out on the daybed (or “David” as the boy calls it), the topic of Sissy soon arose.

“Why don’t you say hello to Sissy?” dad asked the boy.

Who promptly rolled over, lifted up mums t-shirt, looked at her belly and promptly said in a voice loud enough to be heard through skin, subcutaneous fat and foetal fluids, “HELLO SISSY!”.

“And what about a pat?” suggested dad.

So the boy gave mums tum a gentle pat.

“Michael hug Sissy” the boy announced, and given the green light from mum, lay across her belly with arms spread.

Then sat upright, announced Sissy was having a rest, and pulled back down mums shirt.

We were a bit stunned.

And amazed.

(Though the boy did note his displeasure when told that Sissy might cry a bit when she arrived.)

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

Being his mothers son (she being a maths graduate and all that), the boy has taken an affinity to numbers.

His favourite being four.

“Make a four mummy!” he demanded, handing mum a set of duplo blocks that the kind owner had brought over for him to play with (thanks Anne-Marie!)

Mum promptly put her four years of dedicated tertiary maths training to its ultimate use, and made the lad a “four” (though dad thought the tail was a bit long)

“Four!” bellowed the boy in obvious delight.

And ran round to show dad.

“Four!!”

His delight was so profound he continued to run about the house till inevitably the stumbled, dropped it, and the laws of entropy took over (i.e., it smashed).

Upon which he looked at the few blocks left in his hands, ran over to mum, looked up into her eyes and announced;

“Mummy – your fours broken.”

(Maybe you had to be there...)

Swinging kids on swings is, well, lets face it, dullsville.

So in this respect, Byron has a playground worth the price of admission alone; perched on the grass above the beach, right in front of the pub, and with a swingset perpendicular to the surf so the swinger can watch the waves ensuring the swingee gets a decent ride.

“Smart move that” said dads brother, who lived in Byron way back when dad and mistress P were a courting.

“That patch used to be the wino spot; they would never be able to keep it once the mums moved in.”

And having seen a few mums protect their kiddies now, we reckon he’s right.

We seem to be at the official back breaking age.

Too young to walk at adult pace.

Too distracted by the world to remember where we’re going.

Too easily tired out to want to walk.

But…

Clearly too old to want to use the pram.

So it wasn’t until the final full day of the Byron Bay holiday (and hence nearly two weeks since dad saw the physio for a boy-lifting bad back) that the boy was finally coaxed into the stroller. Which enabled mum and dad to finally make it to the end of Main Beach and the (in)famous (if you’re a longboarder) surf break called The Pass.

All very speccy.

It also included numerous bush turkeys pecking away on the edge of the sand, and occasionally through peoples beach bags.

“SHOO!!” the boy would scream.

Literally.

“SHOO SHOO!!”

(This appeared to be something that he first picked up getting rid of flies round his weekend pie on the deck at home, and perfected (much to mum and dads horror) in the serene grounds of the crystal/buddha place, where he made an art form of breaking the reverent silence with his loudest possible “SHOO!!”s when the magpies approached his lunch...)

So when tummy rumbles forced the clan up from The Pass to the overlooking café – or at least Master M announced “Café!” and marched off (what in the wide wide world of sports have we bred?) - and an outside table was selected with glimpses of the surf below, it was only a matter of time until the turkeys arrived too.

And even less time after our banana/berry muffin (MMMmmmm…. Banana berry muffffffinnnnn) was served that the turkeys – all 5-6 kg of them – started leaping onto the railings next to our table and we entered into another game of;

“SHOO!!”

“Try this…” said the waiter, squirting at a buzzard with a water sprayer, almost identical to the one that Master M had used during Black Saturdays 47.3°C-in-our-backyard heatwave to keep himself cool.

“Oh no…” we thought.

Mikes eyes lit up like dishplates.

A small noisy miner attack on a muffin brought a Clint Eastwood/”You feel lucky punk” glint to the boys eye, before he let loose with all the accuracy only a Melbourne heatwave training session could provide.

The bird never knew what hit it.

And from that moment on, neither did the café.

Any turkey, magpie or miner that set foot within a 6ft radius of the table was blasted.

And once they all learnt to keep their distance he was off.

A 2.5ft Rambo stalking his prey.

They’d created a monster.

His bird squirting rage was so intense, he not only refused to consder the last quarter of his much-demanded baby-cino, but unbelievably, any of the remaining banana/berry muffin (MMMMmmmm…. Banana berry muffinnnnn…)

“We’ll have to put that kid on the payroll” said the waiter.

“We’ll have to put the kid in therapy” said dad.

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

Wiggle World.

The holiday ended with a blast back to the Gold Coast and, for the boy, a true trip to nirvana.

Otherwise known as Wiggle World.

The boys first trips on the Big Red car ride left him stunned. Litrerally.
Not a word.
Not a sound.
Barely a blink.
Till it all ended and mum asked if he liked it. All that squeaked out was...
"...yes..."

A recovery period on a Dorothy's cups ride, and then off to lunch.
Only he couldn't eat.
Couldn't sit
Couldn't sleep.

After four trips in the Big Red Car ride, three in the Dorothy tea cups, a rather scarey few minutes with Henry the Octopus, and a trip to Wiggle Bay and his first ever waterslide (he hated it...) it was time to go home.

Which lead to the mantra;
"Big Red Car Yellow Wiggle"
(put through babel fish = "I sat in the Yellow Wiggle's seat and drove the big red car!")

Right until we were home in Melbourne.

What a trip...

One KayGee - week 28

How quickly its all come about.

There we were one minute wondering if the Thorpy-swimmers would ever make it off the blocks, and suddenly here we are at 28 weeks-in and Mistress P is starting to nest.

"We need a new door for the kiddies room..."

Done.

"We need to get Mike into a real bed..."

Sheets bought, bed sourced from Nana and Papa; a genuine hand me down from when dad was a young AB.

(Admittedly dad must be nesting too, as he reckons its time to move house.)

"We need to get this house ready!"

A 50 point list was drawn up immediately.

Being 28 weeks, and having had a few probs in the early stages (not to mention that mum and dad are getting a little, err, long in the tooth), it was off again to the horse-piddle to have one last peer into Sissy's little watery world.

Another scan.

And the end result - all looking good and we have a little girl who, according to the stats associated with head size, bone lengths etc, has officially cracked the 1kg mark.
("Well where the hell is all the other weight coming from?" bemoaned mum, pondering her belly...)

1.1 kilograms (± 0.17) to be exact.

We've also entered the hot stage.
As in mum; pumping out waste heat like she was sponsored by the coal lobby.

Hence we now have a bed with dads half covered by a doona, and mums half by a ratty old thin blanket.

And if past experience is anything to go by, things can only go more nuclear...

Finally the boy.

Thursday 14 May 2009; his first night in a "big bed".

No more cot for this fella - we've joined the bigtime. And isn't he proud... Uncle Bailey was marched into the room by the boy to be shown the "big bed" and be given a personal sleeping demonstration.

Ted, bear and doggy have been dismissed to the cot. (Well, until bedtime, when they are clawed back.)

And finally a little story called the independence of language.

There we were having brekky, but the boy only ate a few mouthfuls of his weetbix/moosli/milk/warmwater mush (as opposed to shovelling it down like normal; we're a 2 weetbix kid you know).

"Ok, well do you want a banana?" mused dad.
"No." said the boy.
"Bread?"
"No"
"How bout Jam Toast?"
"No."
"Fruit?
"No."
"You sure you don't want toast?"

And then it happened.
Out came the hand, the palm was raised to dads face face, and...

"DADDY! STOP TALKING!"

I thought this start with teenagers.
I guess our work here is done.

Two true

We made it.

Two.

Yup, as of 9:17pm Thursday April 16 2009, we have a two year old.

Which is kinda amazing cos it feels like yesterday that he was thrust upon the world and was a slimey wriggly thing that was trying to snake his way up dads chest and latch onto a nipple while mum was in recovery.

"Whoa boy..."

The actual birthday started with morning presents on the bed - in this case a certain"Molly" engine and tender from the Thomas the Tank Engine series. Of course he knew exactly who it was about a year before he even opened the package... these kids are amazing.

Or rather, the folks who market to them are.

From there we progressed to the full family do (including his second family - Jackie his carer and the girls), including even more Thomas and of course Wiggle presents, though the best one of all was the "gtar" - a ukulele from his Babcia. Now he thinks he's Murray.

But the coop de grass came with the cake.

A double layer sponge with white icing, two candles and... a big Wiggles edible decal mum bought at Mr Safeways and stuck on top.

The boy thought he'd died and wiggled up to heaven.

The following day it was off for the official two year weigh-in at the maternal health care centre with the council nurse. And of course, right on cue, he mysteriously appears with a scratch down his face worthy of a Somali pirate, and pimples on his wedding tackle.

"MMmmm... never seen those..." mused the nurse.

They went away. As did the scratch.

The stats revealed that he is indeed his fathers some, clocking in at 75th percentile for height and head, and 50th percentile for weight. All equates to a BMI of "too healthy to bother".

Well done boy. Well done mum.

As a reward, and seeing as by now it was mum's birthday, the wee lad was packed off to his nana and papas for... his first night away from both his parents.

Of course being mum and dads first night alone together in two years + 1 day, they went wild. That is, if dinner and a movie (Mary and Max - we can heartily recommend it, and not just for the fact that AB's cousin's husband is in the credits) and strolling through bookshops in Church St Brighton can be classed as balls out hijinx.

And what did they purchase in the bookshop, without one hint of questioning from either party?

A Wiggles CD by dad.
And a Thomas DVD by mum.

Oh yeah, give it to me baby.
We were rockin' the house.

We're also realising that we're rapidly approaching the time when he may well develop his first memories for life. When visiting nanas house to collect the tike the following day, there were books that dad had read to him as a kiddie. And this provoked a truly bizarre sensation of deja vu - he could remember parts of them as both warm and comforting and a bit scary at the same time, even without looking at the text... it was very twilight zone.

And of course going by the "walk at one, talk at two" rule, the communication is now a two way street. Or rather, multi lane expressway (with tolls).

Case in point. There we were eating tea - a rather nice pumpkin soup and toast on the first shivery cold day of 2009.

Boy only wanted toast.

"How about you eat a spoonful of soup, and then you can have some toast..." dad suggested.

Boy just stared at him. Put his finger in the soup, then decided to put his finger in his hair.

"Or you could just rub it in your hair..." dad lamented under his breath, but apparently all too audibly.

So the boy did.

In went the spoon, out came a great big blob of orange chunky soup, and onto the cranium it went, forming a great big pumpkin soup hat.

Then of course he felt he needed the reward for his compliance.

"Toast!" said boy.

"Bugger..." muttered dad as he handed over the buttered finger.

You know it makes sense.

Meanwhile, quietly growing in the background, Sissy is apparently having tryouts for the Matildas in mums new bigtum, and hence has Mistress P worried what we'll have on our hands when she finally breaks out. This girl can kick.

At least it makes sure she isn't forgotton.

Crikey. We'll have another one turning two before we know it.

(But hopefully with a better taste in hats.)

Chug Chug

"Hello.

My name is Michael Henry Watkins.
And I am a Wiggles-holic."

Yes, as we'd been warned, we're rapidly descending into the terrible (and at times terribly cute) twos.

In Master M's case it's taking the form of an unholy alliance with the marketing genius that is The Wiggles.

You thought Thomas the Tank engine was bad? Well that was just the teaser to get you hooked. Seriously, the kid cant go two minutes without bellowing for a hit of Dorothy Dinosaur, a snort of Captain Feathersword or a taste of Big Red Car.

Its kiddie crack.

Seriously.

And its burning into our adult minds as well.

Standing in the lift at work you find you're singing "toot toot chugga chugga" - right up until two seconds after a Director hops in and stares at you like you're mad.

Someone comes up with a good idea at a planning meeting and you find yourself twirling your thumbs-up fist in agreement.

And when we heard there was going to be a TV show on sporting identity WAGS we shielded the boys eyes cos we thought they meant the dog.

Still, all his wiggles obsession may all be to do with the second instalment of "mum away for a week" syndrome.

Once again Mistress P was off to parts unknown (well, Perth). However when the family headed to the airpirt to wave her goodbye, the lad fell asleep and hence missed out on the waving, and instead woke up at the beach with one of dads windsurfing buddies.

Boy, was he peed off.

"Mummy!!" he demanded.
And them proceeded to cling to dad like poo-poo on a blanket.
He was not amused.

Still, he was on best behaviour - despite being carted off to an extra day of child care - and only mentioned mum once.

Unfortunately that was at 4am on a schoolnight, which meant dad was somewhat bleary eyed at the desk the following day. (In case you're worried, a bit of a late night cuddle on the couch in the dark and he was fine...)

When mum finally arrived home the boy was pumped and primed for a big hello and hence determined not to fall asleep on Airport Drive once again. Hence when mum was spotted in the distance (with her belly considerably closer), the boy looked, blinked, checked... then ran.

With little legs unable to keep up the pace his brain wanted to move, and hence a bitova stumble mid gallop. Mum broke into a jog too...

(It was just like Dudley Moore/Bo Derek in the beach scene from "10".)

Hug with mum done, he was presented with a toy helicopter (which he refused to let go for a full 24 hours) and paraded off back to the car. After which, instead of being clingy like last time, he became Mr No.

"Banana?" "NO!"
"Walk?" "NO!"
"Bed?" "NO!"

It certainly became a bit tiresome, though granted put the point across that he wasn't going to be messed with when it comes to this mother abandonment stuff.

On the mum and Siss front, the bulge is ever expanding and the belly button has well and truly popped into "outtie" mode already. (Dad tells Mike its Sissy's nose.)

Theres a bit of movement from Siss, a few more bathroom trips and preggy brain moments for mum, and a bit less room in the bed for dad.

All good stuff.

Well, cept for mums rather odd aversion to white LED lights; the fairy lights on the back deck now don't make her think of fun times, but rather make her want to puke.

Other recent Mike highlights...

• seeing the "stinky whale" at Rye back beach
• eating chocolate easter eggs until we had a brown face. And people laughed at us on Dromana pier.
  
• having a haircut in a wiggles cape (surely one for the "how cool is that!" file)
  
• pushing a baby doll up mums shirt cos "baby in mummys tummy"
• When told its "windy" outside, saying "No... Wendy" and pointing to our neighbour Wendy's house
• Drawing two lines on a piece of paper and yelling "SEVEN!" cos we'd drawn a seven. Then repeating it
  
• running away from mum and straight into a XXX adult shop. And running straight out again...
  

Chug chug, big car.
All is right with the world.

Hello Sissy - 20 weeks

We have a name to go with the girl.

An in-utero name at least...

Sissy.

"Why in the wide wide world of sports would you lumber her with that?" we hear you ask...

Well;
1) We figure it's silly enough that we wont want to keep it when she arrives...
2) Mike will get to know her as his little "sissy", and can keep calling her that post-pop,
3) Shes kinda in inner space (ergo; Sissy Spacek),
4) SIS, in this case given the pictures, is clearly short for Snuggled InSide; parents being meteorologists and all that, an acronym is compulsory for all major projects.

Of course we had to give her a name - or at least the lady doing our 20 week scan insisted - having seen her in all her naked glory (Sissy that is, not the scanning woman) via the wonders of modern tech-o-nology.

There we were looking at the all too familiar fuzzy flat blob, when the decidedly clothed operator said "Oh, that looks nice..." and flick; there on the screen was our little girl in 3D.

A real live little being with nose and lips and eyes and hands and feet and no longer just a 2D cross section.

One discernible person.

Ok, the wonders of modern tech-o-nology only extend so far and her swatting away a pesky umbilical cord was all too jerky and robot-dance like, but there she was.

Snug as a bug.

"Awwww..." went the well dressed lady, "She's a cutey!"

And we reckon she's right.

Not to mention definitely Mike's sis.
Same lips.
Same nose.
Unable to detect the same obsession with the Wiggles just yet but we're sure that'll come with time.

Of course the scan isn't just about making mum and dad and sartorially splendid operator go all "ohhh" and "ahhh" and "isn't tech-o-nology amazing", it's also about checking if theres anything untoward we should be aware of. And after all the stress of weeks 12 to 18, we just wanted to tick all the boxes.

Brain... fully lobed.
Heart... four chambered and pumping well.
Spine... where it should be.
No club foot.
No cleft pallette.
Ten toes and fingers.
One girl fetus in bog standard trim.
Excellent!

Mistress P mentioned that we'd been feeling Sissy moving about a lot and that even dad had been able to have a good feel of a few kicks, to which the good and smart casual lady suggested that was very early indeed to be feeling such things.

"But it is the second kiddie" said dad... "wont things be all a bit stretched out and stuff - and easier to feel?"

To which the well dressed miss gave Mistress P permission to corporally punish dad for his transgression.

"You wont last long making comments like that with girls around you know", she chided.

Oh dear.
Girls.
You have a lot to learn AB.
A lot to learn.

A sausage in the hand is worth two at the beach

Its only a matter of time and Connex will be blaming the late trains on the baby boom.

You think we're joking??

Well think again my friend.

Poor old Mistress P has been feeling a bit low in the blood pressure department - as preggas women tend to do - which combined with the overcrowding on the trains and a lack of a blatantly obvious bulging baby belly (so she can tell young whipper snappers to give her a seat or feel the wrath of a fetus scorned), meant there's been at least one train trip thus far where the earth has started to turn. And not in a good way.

She survived. Just.
But surely many others haven't... watch for the press release.

Having said that the belly isn't all that noticeable; well, errr... actually it is.

Being a second time mum and all that, the muscles and tendons and all the bits that hold things in have had a bit of a stretchy-poo (a.k.a Mike), and hence we're a little bigger a little earlier this time. That said... you do get bonus points.

Such as feeling little Miss {unnamed as yet} having a bit of a roll about in there, even though we're well shy of the 20 weeks. And thats not just for mum; dad too has plonked the hand on the belly and felt the internal shenanigans.

How cool is that?

Speaking of shenanigans, that really should be Master M's middle name. (Only it's Henry.)

Or maybe it should be Sponge.

The amount of information the boy is taking on board is amazing. Ok, you need a PhD in linguistics to understand him (or be his mum or dad) but the lad is coming up with an astounding array of words and sentences.

For instance, dad was somewhat Fraudianly wandering about on their most recent long weekend away down the coast, singing (to himself - or so he thought - for obvious reasons), "Surrender" by Cheap Trick.

On the car drive home a little voice started babbling from the back seat...

"Mummysorrright"

"Whats that Michael?" said dad.

"Daddysorrright" Mike replied with a big grin.

"Errr... they just seem a little...?" posed dad...

"Weeeed!" said Mike.

Jumping Jehosephat... he was almost right (Exhibit A; Cheap Trick - Surrender):

Mummys all right,
Daddys all right,
They just seem a little weird...

This little memory trick wasn't his only one from the weekend away - not by a long shot.

Walking along one of the side streets we wandered past a trailer that had been parked in the exact same position the last time we walked down that street back on Orstraya Day weegend (i.e., nearly 2 months ago.)

"Fan." said Master M.

"What's that Michael?" said mum.

"Fan gone" said the boy, pointing at the trailer.

Crikey.
There was a fan in that trailer two months ago which was now, well, gone. (We do indeed remember, because at the time he was obsessed with fans. No we don't know why - heatwave perhaps - he just was.)

And then there's his love of the surf. Or at least that's what we thought.

A morning stroll along the beach chanced us upon a surfing competition, complete with some windsurfing friends cheering on one of their own, and a friend from work who was also in the comp and carving up a few young'uns on the way. But more to Mikes liking, there was a genuine sizzling-on-the-sand BBQ.

"Sausy?" (a.k.a Sausage) he asked...

"No matey - that's just for the surfing people..."

"Sausy?"

And off he went, making his pleas while bouncing into random shivering rubber people and stepping on the odd board scaring dad witless that he'd snap off a fin and cost him another hundred bucks in repairs.

"Sausy?"

...till eventually he was given one. Complete with white bread and sauce (the food of kings).

A quick fight with the assorted dogs who were slobbering after a sausage brought down to their eye level, and he wolfed it down, had a 2 minute walk on/over the boards once more, then put on his best starving child face and batted the eyelids to yet another total stranger in rubber:

"Sausy?"

And scored a second one.

The next day he seemed remarkably keen to go to the beach.
Being proud parents and beaming at the prospect that the son and heir was following in our surf loving footsteps, we obliged the lad and took him down to the boardwalk, which he galloped down and onto the sand.

Where he stood.
Turned.
Looked left.
Looked right.
Looked at said parents...

"Sausy?"

Mind like a steel trap.

Big Tum II: revenge of the chromosomes

Well it's taken some huffing and puffing, some joy and some tears (and seemingly a never ending set of trips to the doctors) but we're now proud to announce....

Welcome to Big Tum II.

Yup, we're on the preggas bus once more, next stop; kids (plural) city.

And in only 23 weeks time too.

To be honest the past few weeks have been tough.
Real tough.

Like all expectant future mums and dads these days, it was off for the compulsory 12 week blood-test-and- scan.
No wukkas.
Or so we thought.

"They look great" said the scan girl at the horse-piddle, "nuchal skin fold is about 2mm, nice and healthy in the 1-3mm range" she said. Well, more like 'frantically blerted', in between a very worried little Master M bellowing and clinging to mum and saying "sen... sen...", which is his code for "hold my hand and i'll take you somewhere else". (No, we dont know why "sen" means this either; it just does.)

His concern was cute, his cries less so, hence dad took him for a couple of walks through the horse-piddle, including several trips up and down the lift; all two floors of it. There was enough button pressing to get him a job at Grace Bros.

So off to the doc it was a week later for the overall results of the scan and bloods, all excited to get the good news.

Which wasn't so good.

Whereas Mike had come in at the "don't make me laugh" end of the scale (i.e., so little chance of a problem he'd asymptoted at the top and mum was akin to a 15 year old in likelihood of having a problem), these results had gone to the "MMmm.. bugger..." end of the scale (i.e., bottomed out).

"You've got a 1 in 40 chance of a problem; thats high."

Our hearts sank, even though our minds said "hey, thats a 39 in 40 chance everything is fine".

Still all and sundry gave us the scenarios, the gory details and possible problems, and we were bussed off for more tests. Then they tell you the problems with the tests - like 1 in 200 miscarriage etc. Still, a lot boiled down to equations that were weighted by age; something Mistress P is, frankly, not showing.

So mentally it was a tug of war - odds are actually in our favour despite doctors repeating the "high risk" mantra, tests with risks, wondering about the "what ifs" and life changing decisions and then there was the waiting...

Mental torture.

First waiting till we were at 15 weeks so they could do further tests (an amniocentesis) , then a wait for initial "FISH" (it sounds nicer than "Fluorescence in situ hybridisation") gene marker tests (which came in ok, "but its only a screening test"), then finally the big old perve at the genes themselves after a frustratingly long 14 days of cell growing (normally 10-12).

Which of course culminated in being faxed the earlier FISH result again, and having to wait 12 more hours, just to rub it in.
Argh.

Result:
A-OK.

And its a girl; we'll have the set.

So, here we are.
A healthy little bub stretching the belly once more, mum already over the worst of the morning sickness but swearing she doesn't want to do that again (two spews, craving for oranges), well over 17 weeks in and hence a sizable bulge that surely half the population of Melbourne has noticed but has been too afraid to ask (thankfully; well, minus the one lady who rushed up and went for a good old rub much to Mistress P's horror), and a little boy who's none the wiser about his sister to be - we assume he just thinks mums eaten a few too many pies.

The experience wouldnt be complete without the first case of preggas brain. Lets just say that when paying for things online using BPAY, we'll be triple checking the number of zeros on the end from now on. (Anyone want to buy some surplus to requirements x 10 Wesfarmers shares???)

Ahhh pregnancy.
Its natures way of getting you a seat on the bus.
(Wish us luck!)

Postscript:
Forgot to say... due 7/8/9 (i.e., 7 August 2009). Now if that isn't a lucky number, we dont know what is...