It's 5am. The man I love is lying in deep repose by my side. We are immersed in sleep and comfort - enveloped in a cloud of duck down and duvet quite happy to die right there should the occasion call for it. It is so quiet and peaceful in our little slice of heaven that even the crickets and birds and the sausage dogs are silent.
Then it happens.
An offensive sound of inconceivable magnitude shatters my blissful reverie and renders me (unceremoniously) awake. I am referring of course, to the alarm clock. It is 5.45 - it is Sunday.
The gentle lion that was purring softly by my side is suddenly upright.
He stumbles around, naked in the semi-dark pulling on boardies, squinting to find a t-shirt; trying, but failing, to be quiet. In a feeble attempt at tip-toeing in flip-flops he sneaks out to procure a towel which he wrenches free from the towel wrack, sunblock which he drops in the dark 'fuck!' and wetsuit that he gets from the washing line, forgetting that our kitchen door slams if left unattended. Slamming his way back inside, he eats a banana and then 'tip-toes' back into the bedroom to kiss me goodbye. He stands just far enough away, assessing his chances of either a vitriolic attack or a loving reception. I can sense his cautious approach and open one eye a tiny crack. He bends down and leans in close.
'Chicken?...' he whispers, all banana breath & Factor 45. I look at him in silence for this is my favourite part....
'I'm going surfing' (Grin)
And it's then that I wonder who to bow down & thank for this magnificent man who wins the Most Obvious Statement of the Year award.
He kisses my face, crunches up the gravel path, wrestles his surfboard from its bag, wakes the neighbours dogs and speeds away in his big diesel bakkie.
A deep and resignated sigh emanates from somewhere under the covers - I'm so awake I could be solving complex formulae.
In other grand happenings, we saw footage of our son for the first time the other day - with a 3D scanner thingo that simply blows your mind. Here's a good one of him looking into the camera.
We were a little startled after this experience, epic as it was, and spent the rest of the day making silly errors of judgement.
Recently I decided to brave the inner sanctum of Baby City for the first time alone. Having crossed the threshold into a sea of expectant mothers and obedient fathers, I was faced with wall-to-wall infant products, shelves stacked high with every conceivable item of clothing, bedding, protective armour, maternity panties, breast pumps and feeding bra's. Newborn paraphernalia made of anti-inflammatory, hypo-allergenic, non-stick, non-break, waterproof, burn proof and shit-proof materials shouted at me from every corner. I tell myself to stay calm, stick to the plan, how hard can it be?
Inhaling the smell of baby powder deeply, I get into the zone and suddenly I am ROBO MOM.
I know exactly what I need, what I want, what it costs, which shelf its on, what colour it is and what its made of. I search and destroy like a heat-seeking mother-missile - the assistant says 'may I help you' I say 'no thanks' - I pay, I sign I'm standing on the pavement with the sun on my face and some bags in my hands wondering what the fuck just happened.
Is this what they call 'instinct'? Didn't think it applied to high end consumerism but who am I to question. We're 31 weeks now - 9 to go. Sporting a huge belly I'm prone to sudden bouts of irritation, I've lost 10% of my brain capacity, I snore at night, fart alot and fall asleep on the couch every afternoon.
It would seem -- despite all evidence to the contrary -- that I have turned into a man.
Then it happens.
An offensive sound of inconceivable magnitude shatters my blissful reverie and renders me (unceremoniously) awake. I am referring of course, to the alarm clock. It is 5.45 - it is Sunday.
The gentle lion that was purring softly by my side is suddenly upright.
He stumbles around, naked in the semi-dark pulling on boardies, squinting to find a t-shirt; trying, but failing, to be quiet. In a feeble attempt at tip-toeing in flip-flops he sneaks out to procure a towel which he wrenches free from the towel wrack, sunblock which he drops in the dark 'fuck!' and wetsuit that he gets from the washing line, forgetting that our kitchen door slams if left unattended. Slamming his way back inside, he eats a banana and then 'tip-toes' back into the bedroom to kiss me goodbye. He stands just far enough away, assessing his chances of either a vitriolic attack or a loving reception. I can sense his cautious approach and open one eye a tiny crack. He bends down and leans in close.
'Chicken?...' he whispers, all banana breath & Factor 45. I look at him in silence for this is my favourite part....
'I'm going surfing' (Grin)
And it's then that I wonder who to bow down & thank for this magnificent man who wins the Most Obvious Statement of the Year award.
He kisses my face, crunches up the gravel path, wrestles his surfboard from its bag, wakes the neighbours dogs and speeds away in his big diesel bakkie.
A deep and resignated sigh emanates from somewhere under the covers - I'm so awake I could be solving complex formulae.
In other grand happenings, we saw footage of our son for the first time the other day - with a 3D scanner thingo that simply blows your mind. Here's a good one of him looking into the camera.
We were a little startled after this experience, epic as it was, and spent the rest of the day making silly errors of judgement.
Recently I decided to brave the inner sanctum of Baby City for the first time alone. Having crossed the threshold into a sea of expectant mothers and obedient fathers, I was faced with wall-to-wall infant products, shelves stacked high with every conceivable item of clothing, bedding, protective armour, maternity panties, breast pumps and feeding bra's. Newborn paraphernalia made of anti-inflammatory, hypo-allergenic, non-stick, non-break, waterproof, burn proof and shit-proof materials shouted at me from every corner. I tell myself to stay calm, stick to the plan, how hard can it be?
Inhaling the smell of baby powder deeply, I get into the zone and suddenly I am ROBO MOM.
I know exactly what I need, what I want, what it costs, which shelf its on, what colour it is and what its made of. I search and destroy like a heat-seeking mother-missile - the assistant says 'may I help you' I say 'no thanks' - I pay, I sign I'm standing on the pavement with the sun on my face and some bags in my hands wondering what the fuck just happened.
Is this what they call 'instinct'? Didn't think it applied to high end consumerism but who am I to question. We're 31 weeks now - 9 to go. Sporting a huge belly I'm prone to sudden bouts of irritation, I've lost 10% of my brain capacity, I snore at night, fart alot and fall asleep on the couch every afternoon.
It would seem -- despite all evidence to the contrary -- that I have turned into a man.
