I turned 30 at the start of last month, which was a
fun milestone to pass. I’d always looked forward to both my 27th and
30th birthdays; it’s strange now that they’re both over. At first I
was thinking about celebrating the big day by inviting a bunch of loved ones to
our place for a partay, but as the
date drew near I realised that the best birthday present I could give myself
was to NOT have to plan for a bunch of loved ones to come over. Instead, Alan
and I dropped Moses off with his grandparents and whizzed into the city for a
night on our own. It was my favourite birthday ever. I decided to NOT take a
photo of us smiling over our (very yummy) meals, but couldn’t help pulling out
the phone to take a picture of this sign (Alan reckons everyone’s over this joke. I thought it was hilarious [although that may just be the hormones]):
We'll get you, Bill Posters! |
So I’m 30 now, and one step closer to my ultimate
dream of becoming Maggie Beer.
In more recent news, I’m currently gestating a huge
and very active baby girl. The kickiness is wonderful – not only has being
pummelled from the inside kept me occupied throughout some long waits and
otherwise-boring situations lately, it’s also a precious reminder that I’M
PREGNANT! It still amazes me. I sometimes glimpse my silhouette or reflection
and think, “Hey! I didn’t think I’d ever look like this again!” It’s pretty
cool. The hugeness, on the other hand, does not excite me quite so much. The
friendly guy at the fruit shop looked at my belly and declared, “Not long to go
now!” His face fell when I told him that four months kinda was long. There are women who look this big JUST BEFORE THEY GIVE BIRTH. There are
women who are so tiny THEY DON’T EVEN REALISE THEY’RE PREGNANT UNTIL THEY GO
INTO LABOUR (I watched far too many episodes of I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant on Foxtel at my brother’s place over
Christmas). I am not one of those women.
Apart from strangers preparing themselves to catch a
baby every time I waddle by, the problem with the hugeness is that it’s HEAVY.
I would give anything to detach this belly and carry it on my back for a while,
in a little pack. Or pass it over to my husband for a bit. It’s exhausting. And
there’s a lot of growing yet to be done inside (I’m blaming the bigness of the
bub here, because it’s easier than admitting I have extraordinarily lazy
stomach muscles). I’ve been going through longish phases of feeling wonderful, followed by a week or so of
feeling constantly hungry and tired and HEAVY. Last week I was practically
bouncing around, and am pretty sure I managed some glowing; this week I just
want food and sleep and things to sit/lie/lean on. (I realise only now I should
have written this post a few days ago, while I was still on a high; sorry about
that.)
Whines aside, I’ve discovered as a result of my
heaviness that I really enjoy swimming! I go to a 25-metre heated pool not far
from our place which is frequented mostly by old people who walk laps and swim
so slowly you’re not sure if they’ve died between strokes. I feel very much at
home there. I’ve bought myself a swimming cap and some goggles and some too-big
maternity swimmers that sag at the bottom when I get out of the water (garage
sale, $2). I go each Tuesday, and I look forward to the 45-or-so minutes of
weightlessness the water provides.
I go on Tuesdays because Mo’s started Family Day Care
with a beautiful carer called Kerry. At first he was signed up with a carer
closer to our place, but after meeting Kerry I realised that my fears about him
starting with the other woman weren’t purely because I was a snob (her program
included dancing to Hi-5 and she said things like, “Play with them toys, love!”)
or not yet ready to leave my child with a stranger, but just that we hadn’t met
The One. Kerry’s The One. She bakes bread with the kids each morning (which
they eat together with/for lunch), they plant vegies, they share their morning
tea and they play dress ups. Moses blows distracted kisses to me as I leave and
cries when I come to pick him up because he wants to stay forever. There was a
point last year where I despaired of his ever leaving my side; I’m enjoying his
new independence (it arrived some time in January). In other Mo news, he’s now
sleeping in a big bed, wearing underpants and saying things like, “Thank you,
Mummy! You’re a good helper!” and (talking about me and him) “We’re best
friends like Gaspard and Lisa!” He’s such a little boy now! What do babies need
again? I’ve completely forgotten.
As for Alan, he’s shaved his head again, which means
that a) he looks more like the guy I married and b) our next airport trip will
almost certainly involve a bomb test. He celebrated a birthday last week,
and we all cooked a choc-chip and apricot cake that turned out to be extremely
good*. He’s also started coming up with name suggestions for the baby, which
is both surprising and scary. When I was pregnant with Moses the best he ever
offered was ‘Harvey Norman’ (followed by “Heh heh heh!”), and the joke went on
for so long that we ended up quite liking the name Harvey (it’s Mo’s middle
name). This time he’s offering valid name
ideas, very seriously. I like none of them. I’m freaking out.
And that’s pretty much us at the moment. Hopefully
this stint of writing has broken my stint of not-writing, and I’ll be back
again soon with something more interesting. We’ll see...
I’ll leave you with two videos
that very nearly made me pee my pants, as a congratulations for making
it this far (apologies to my Facebook friends, who may have seen these before):
///
* I’m sorry, this is going a bit far, isn’t it? I’m
reminded of one of the sketches from The Sketch Show: “There’s boring and then there’s boring, but that’s just
taking the piss.”
Fascinating stuff--because it's your life, not mine, and you write about it well!
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