Celebrate the season you’re in
Here, as I overcompensate for yesterday’s long entry, is a picture of an autumn tree:
I’m pregnant
The rumours are true.
Every Wednesday from now on will be about the baby (aka Mini-Me) until he/she is old enough to need some privacy (it’s quite likely I’ll mention breasts, breastfeeding, and maybe periods – but that’s as gross/adult as it will get). I’ve also prepped literally dozens of blog entries in advance – awesomenesses, pregnancy thoughts, and book reviews – to make sure I don’t let you guys down.
I was irrationally terrified CJ and I would be infertile, but it turns out we’re quite the opposite. We had one month of just trying, one month with a chemical pregnancy, and now we’re pregnant for real. Most people take 6-12 months to conceive – not three.
What’s a chemical pregnancy? It’s an extremely early miscarriage – within the first five weeks, and often before the first period (I only know about it because I used Forelife brand pregnancy tests, which turned out to be MORE sensitive than the urine tests at the doctor). Chemical pregnancies happen when the baby is malformed somehow. Which means that if our second-month pregnancy had come to term, it might have looked a little like this:
http://www.mykeamend.com/paintings/Purple.png
But THIS pregancy will probably end up looking a little like these samples my associates prepared earlier (especially the first, my niece):
When are you due? January 18 (although that may change as doctors learn more about the baby’s size – and it’s likely I’ll be up to two weeks late, like my mum). As of today, I am at six weeks.
Observant readers will notice that January is always an eventful month in my life – CJ and I married in Janury 2009 (I had in fact told him the previous August that we HAD to marry in January, and my mum and sister and I had discussed it in detail for over a year), went to China and Indonesia in January 2010, and had a second honeymoon in January 2011. For me, Christmas holidays are a dark, empty period of no tutoring income for two months (and the excess of free time doesn’t help things at all). We timed our conception attempts deliberately to (hopefully) hit the Christmas holidays. . . and we actually did it. So the timing is GREAT. Plus, my sister will be here – awesome.
Are you concerned about miscarriage? Mildly. I know the chances of miscarriage are relatively high in the next seven weeks, but I come from strong baby-making stock so I’ll almost certainly be fine.
Do you want a girl or a boy? Yes.
Before I was married, I wanted girls (because girls mostly make sense to me, and boys mostly don’t). The more I get to know CJ, the more I want a boy. But then again, girls have smaller heads.
How’s CJ coping? I love change and CJ hates it – but he’s also naturally VERY calm (any calmer and he’d be dead), and surprisingly good at adapting when change happens. He’s quietly excited about becoming a father, but to a certain extent he’s not convinced Mini-Me is real (which is fair enough, as well as being handy for coping with the thought of the epic journey ahead of us). The first few days after we found out were probably the only time in our lives that I was calmer than him. I enjoyed that.
How are you feeling physically? Pretty normal, with a host of minor side effects so far – stomach cramps, pain, nausea, gastro, stomach-muscles twinging if I lift something heavy or reach for something high. Back pain. Sore breasts (I’ve already gone up a cup size, yay!), flatulence (yes, CJ, that was me – not the cat), dry skin, bigger belly (yes, already – to be fair, it was big to start off with), fatigue, emotional sensitivity (in every direction – exactly like PMS), and a cold. It’s fascinating how much pregnancy screws with everything in one’s entire body – but so far, it’s all extremely minor. Oh, I’m also extra unco and extra forgetful – no surprises there.
Since writing the above a few days ago, proper nausea has kicked in – particularly in the evenings. It’s just like being seasick, which means I have a pretty good idea where the increasing nausea is inevitably heading. Yo ho. . .
Actually, the most annoying thing so far is that on the steam train day I had another side effect: thirty mosquito bites all over my ankles and legs. Not a single other person I spoke to had any bites whatsoever. So remember, next time you go camping, to save yourself from insect attack all you need to do is pack a pregnant woman.
Here’s hoping my blood isn’t as delicious to vampires. Note to self: carry a stake (and/or exacto knife).
I also had a wacky pregnancy dream that I was a man (a sailor, incidentally – talk about foreshadowing) whose fiance gave birth to a large potato. After a careful discussion about whether smaller offspring would be bullied by the other children, we cut the potato in half – making it into twins.
Evidently, my subconscious skipped out on sex ed classes.
Have you thought at all about, ya know, having a baby – and how you’ll deal with that? Having a baby (child, teenager, adult offspring) is pretty much the point of the exercise, and it’s something I’ve thought about carefully for several years. I know it’s what I want to do with my life, and I also know it’ll be harder than I can imagine. There’s no way I’d have attempted this without CJ (quite apart from the difficulty of conception without his assistance), and I also know my mum’s obsession with grandchildren is the greatest thing in the world. Hello, free babysitting.
How’s that mental illness coming along? Very well, thank you. Oh, you mean How is someone with an anxiety disorder going to cope with pregnancy, and a real live baby?
Pregnancy is a lot like mental illness, but with physical illness on top. My tutoring workload is rather low at the moment – so I’m leaving it where it is until further notice (resisting the urge to earn more money while I still can). I’ve been madly stocking up on frozen meals – consciously planning for around six weeks of bleaugh and lolling around the house (I observed my sister’s pregnancy closely, and she was basically fine except for the second half of the first trimester – so I’m right on schedule). The good thing about my anxiety disorder is that I am very familiar with my own limits, and extremely aware of danger signs. I am not trying to be superwoman, and I’m certainly not going to attempt to be a supermum.
I’m already napping every day, doing less writing (I’m two months ahead on my quota anyway – did I mention I planned this?), and eating WAY more vegetables, milk, and protein. I’m also eating 30-100 grams of chocolate each day so that if I snap and have a binge it’s not a huge shock to the system (caffeine can harm an unborn baby, but since I don’t drink coffee I’m okay so long as I stick to my preference for milk rather than dark chocolate). My no-no foods are soft cheese, soft serve ice cream, raw food (unless it’s peeled and/or washed in hot water and detergent, ugh), paté, and processed cold meat. And (obviously) alcohol.
Most of the same prioritise-the-baby-and-be-good-to-myself principles apply to a new baby experience, except with way more assistance from CJ (who gets parental leave), my Mum, and everyone else I’ve ever met. My expectations are: emotional collapse on day 3, extreme exhaustion and sleep deprivation for several months, lots of poo and vomit and screaming for several years – and joy and sorrow for the rest of my life.
I also honestly believe I can handle it (with all that help, of course) as well or better than the average new mum.
Why’s that?
When something is meaningful, I can handle it. When it’s not – I can’t. I can’t work in a shop (unless it’s a bookshop), but I can look after a newborn. The difficulty actually makes it easier for me mentally, because it makes me feel my life has purpose (yes, I’m weird, I know).
I also spend a lot of time with babies and kids, and always have. CJ and I each have an excellent set of parents, which gives us a huge advantage in knowing how it’s done. Most of all, I know my strength is limited – which is, in my opinion, the single most useful piece of self-knowledge for a mum to have.
Are you scared about labor? Not really. Firstly because it’s not until next year, and I figure I can save that fear for later. Secondly because the pain will likely last around thirty hours – and then end (pain with a purpose AND a specific timeframe is the best kind). I tend to deal with crisis fairly well (unlike ordinary life, which terrifies me), and labor definitely counts as a heroic endeavour (and an AWESOME writing experience).
Frankly, I’m looking forward to labor – it means Mini-Me is about to arrive.
Here’s to January 2012!
Bungendore Antique Shop
Bungendore is a small town, and a classy one, so I’m betting they have several antique shops. This one is a half-acre in size. It seems small, and then you go through a door to the back – and there’s more. Then you go through another door, and another, and another.
It’s a little like the TARDIS that way. And also in its eccentricities:
Tomorrow: The most awesome, and life-changing, and blog-changing awesomeness of all time. . . revealed at last.
Horse
On the day of the steam train, a bunch of us wandered down a Bungendore street to a cafe. A horse in a field beside the pavement hung its head over the fence. I patted it on the nose, then invited my six-year old nephew to do the same. The horse was calm but optimistic. Just as CJ took this photo, it tossed its head – hoping the hand that patted it also brought it some food. It made BJ jump.
Steam Train
Last Sunday, a bunch of my friends and family dressed up and rode a steam train (built in 1903).
The ride was similar to any other train ride, except for the clouds of smoke and steam through the windows. The windows themselves, being antiques, would sometimes slam shut with no warning. This only added to the thrill.
My nephew is six years old now, and is a charming (and effervescent) gentleman. He regaled us with a long story about a kangaroo that had wandered into his front yard (plausible) and cleaned the windows (not so much).
That’s a paper plane in his hand, with which he grew more closely aquainted with everyone else in our carriage.
The train took us to Bungendore (a classy antiquing and craft-oriented small town) and back again, through three tunnels (all unlit). We discovered that burning coal smells precisely like dirty nappies – so much so that, even after the ride up to Bungendore, everyone in the carriage checked their children’s nappies when the wind changed.
The smell was strongest in the tunnels, as the smoke had nowhere to go but inside our carriage, casting lines of visible sunshine across the air.
At Bungendore we were allowed inside the locomotive (I smelled the unburnt coal, and it was a lot like burnt toast).
Just as I stood outside for yet another classic author photo. . . the whistle blew.
Surprise!
I have done something awesome. Something so awesome it’s going to change my life forever – and change this blog, too. It is very, very good – and required a little luck to achieve.
I’m not going to tell you what it is. Not until exactly one week from now.
I will tell you that if you know me (even just through this blog) you know that there are only two things it could possibly be.
It’s the second one.
Feel free to make guesses in the comments if that’s your thing – but I won’t confirm or deny anything until Wednesday next week.
Tomorrow: Steam Train!
Eurovision Party
Eurovision: The world’s greatest drinking game*. You drink every time you see white pants, three or more nonsense syllables in a row (eg la, la, la), a dramatic key change, an on-stage costume alteration, lyrics that are in English (but barely recognisable as such), and so on.
Eurovision is a massive international contest for up and coming musicians. All Europe (and several other countries) competes, the finals run for several nights, and then the 25 best songs are performed in one massive night, followed by a LOT of voting. Abba first became famous at Eurovision.
Sounds sane, doesn’t it? I assure you it is not. The thing that makes Eurovision special is the astonishing array of poor singing, apalling songs, and sheer exuberance. I dressed up for the occasion, and so did a few others:
Last year a German woman named Lena won the contest. The opening number celebrating her 2010 song featured sixteen synchonised male dancers dressed all in white (that’s sixteen drinks), then (I kid you not) twenty-four fake Lenas in little black dresses and wigs, singing and dancing together with the flags of the twenty-five finalists (Lena was representing Germany again this year, so she was among them).
All my doubts about Eurovision 2011 (could it be as spectacularly wrong as previous years?) were banished at once.
I was a little disappointed that only one lady (Lithuania, if memory serves) showed massive cleavage, and not a single girl ripped off an item of clothing at an opportune moment.
Ah well. 2011 was all about boy bands, magic, and hoop skirts.
One of the early gentlemen had hair that looked like he’d stuck his hand in an electrical socket, but even he was outdone by Ireland, who had a pair of male lead singers with five-inch high hair on top and giant dice-shaped shoulder pads. Oh, and they were twins, too.
My picks for the top three:
1. France’s tousle-haired opera singer.
2. Italy’s soft jazz.
3. Finland’s oh-so-subtle environmental pop, “Da Da Dum” (that’s three nonsense syllables, by the way).
The host of our Eurovision party assigned each person their own country. Austria was mine – a lady with six-inch heels apparently welded in palce (to a podium in an inpenetrable sea of fog from which several backup singers appeared). It was rather dull in Eurovision terms – nothing but a few hundred sequins flashing on her dress. . . which turned out to be real diamonds. Yikes.
Ukraine stood out. She had a cool dress and the song was fine (again, Eurovision standards apply). The REALLY cool thing was that she had a sand artist on stage, making brilliant pictures that appeared on the giant screen as they were formed. And so it was that the Ukraine was upstaged by sand. Badly.
The best part about Lena’s triumphant re-entry into the contest was her interview, when she replied to the question, “Why compete again?” with “Because I am an egotist” and to the question, “Are you nervous?” with “My legs are shaking and my breasts are ready to BCHOOO!” (With mime of exploding breasts). Her song (along with two others) was terribly derivative of last year’s winning offering – although this time her backup dancers were dressed in hooded silver unitards.
Because it’s Eurovision, that’s why.
Serbia’s song had a pleasantly psychedelic 60s vibe (with a charming lack of actual dancing ability), but my heart will always belong to Moldova.
Every single person on stage wore a 2.5-foot cone-shaped hat on their head through the entire song. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, a fairy (also in a giant cone-shaped hat) rode onto stage on a unicycle, wearing a short hoop skirt with bells all around the hem, and carrying a two-foot long fake trumpet. At the last moment, the lead singer produced and wore a monocle.
Don’t believe me? Want to see it for yourself? Okay.
I’m sad to report that none of my favourites won. The winner was Azerbaijan, with a harmonious and catchy song about – ah, whatever. I don’t care. Probably love.
*Those of us working the next day tend to play the drinking game with M&Ms/smartes/skittes/pods/etc.
Sit in the sun
Right now the Northern and Southern Hemisphere meet weather-wise as they head in opposite directions. The weather here is getting colder and colder, and my washing no longer dries fully on the line.
But today was sunny. There wasn’t any rain, and there wasn’t any gale-force wind (yet). So I went outside (*gasp*) in my beanie and fuzzy jacket, and I sat in the sun and read a Scott Westerfeld (Behemoth, again).
Do play along at home, if you can.
Indah knows how it’s done:
PS Sherlock now has a thing for Gimli.
Politics of Fish
Right now, CJ and I have six fish.
Gandalf is a male siamese fighting fish. He can’t live in a tank with other long-finned fish because they’ll attack each other, but in general I’ve found him to be surprisingly placid.
Frodo is the last of our neon tetras, and is reasonably old now (named “Frodo” on the basis of being the last one of the tetras, all of whom are clearly small and helpless and thus names after hobbits). He doesn’t bother anyone, and is the smallest fish. He’s of indeterminate gender. Usually tetras are happiest in groups, but he appears to be coping with his newfound solitude. Sometimes he hangs with the guppies (who are the next smallest).
Our guppies are Aragorn and Gimli. Aragorn has a big decorative tail like a butterfly’s wing, and is more aggressive than Gimli. Gimli is orange – a colour most find unattractive (although there are some who REALLY like that sort of thing), hence the name.
Our bristlenose catfish is Watson, because he pootles about being a bottom feeder and generally cleaning up messes.
Our reticulate loach is Sherlock, because he runs about maniacally and is generally peculiar and fascinating. (Another bottom feeder, but a carniverous one – the last one bit off Sam’s eye. Sam has since died. Bad, naughty, violent Sherlock.) He’s also of indeterminate gender (which I can only presume is good news for Watson).
Gandalf is elderly now, and deserves his own tank. Unfortuantely, the new tank is infested with snails – so I bought Sherlock to deal with them. Gandalf took an instant dislike to teeny tiny Sherlock, and chased him excessively. Naughty, crochety Gandalf! He used to be so good-natured before I let him have his own pad.
Aragorn has been biting Gimli ever since Gimli arrived. I spoke to the pet shop staff and discovered that, basically, that’s what boys do. The only way to stop them is with women – LOTS of women. (Rather disturbingly, a single female with two guys will be killed in the battle for her love. Does that add insight into Lord of the Rings, or is that just me?)
Aragorn and Gandalf don’t get on (I never expected they would).
In an effort to maintain peace while simultaneously killing the snails in the small tank, I moved Gandalf to the big tank with Watson, Frodo and Gimli. Aragorn and Sherlock both buzzed around happily in the small tank, not killing each other. Gandalf hid in a plant and Gimli left him alone. All good!
Then the filter in the big tank broke.
Most fish need the filter for oxygen as well as cleanliness. So I moved Gimli and Frodo into the small tank with Aragorn and Sherlock. Aragorn and Gimli immediately resumed their territorial wars – but at least it’s a match of even strength.
Gandalf is fine without a filter (in the short term) and Watson is big enough that I’ll see signs of distress before he’s in any real danger – so they’re remaining in the big tank. For now I’m manually adding oxygen (ie periodically picking up water in a cup and pouring it back in again to create bubbles), and keeping an eye on everyone.
Every so often, my neighbours hear one of the following plaintive cries:
“Aragorn! Leave Gimli alone!”
“Sherlock! Eat the snails. The SNAILS!”
“It’s all right Gandalf. You can come out of your tree now.”
Felicity Banks 
