Nine Months

Back in Umdloti and I am finding this last stretch of time both physically and mentally challenging. My days consist of waddling from one activity to the next, falling asleep at any given opportunity like a narcoleptic duck. The nesting urge has kicked in something solid - Mike & I spent the weekend DIY'ing and decorating whilst Kings of Leon rattled the window panes in the background. Domestic bliss oozed from every dusty corner as furniture was shifted, blinds were installed, vacuum cleaners sang and mozzie nets fitted to lend a distinctly Arabian nights feel to our little home.



Nine months is up.

We've had a ball with it and are madly, deeply in love - with each other and this child who we can't wait to meet and smother with amazement at his existence.

And so finally; with the right combination of committment, rugby shorts, hat and hammer the nursery is complete, the hospital bags are packed, the master bedroom is mosquito-proofed; and that's it from us until the next time I write when two has become three.

Birds of a Feather

You know you're pregnant when:-

1. You start thinking in weeks and wonder why no-one else around you understands what you're talking about
2. You eat everything and anything, and when people tell you that you've put on weight you smile and blame it on the baby
3. You think you might actually be able to get away with farting in public
4. People piss you off everytime all the time and for no particular reason
5. The words 'sense of entitlement' take on a whole new meaning especially when referring to parking, queues, aeroplanes and all-you-can-eat buffets
6. Baby City staff members know you by name
7. The sins of your past magically evaporate and you become a self-righteous, moralistic pain in the arse
8. Things like nipple expression, perineal massage and pelvic floor exercises become items on your daily To Do list
9. You start to keep an eye out for kid-friendly places and join a Mom & Tots Group even though the idea of it all makes you want to fall in a heap and cry
10. With monumentous effort you finally throw away that Size 8 boob tube that you used to wear in London with thigh high boots and hot pants
11. You realise that this is it. Life is never, ever going to be the same. Not never.

36.5 weeks (that's 8 months for the non-pregnants) and time appears to have stopped, even though my belly & boobs continue to expand at an alarming rate with annoying consequences. Bets are on for the actual arrival date of baby - the winner receives a years supply of condoms.

Tomorrow is Mike's birthday, and we will be celebrating with great aplomb. He has been working around the clock snatching 4 hours sleep a night if that. His nightly contract is over in a week and life will resume some semblance of normality. In the meantime its a heartwrenching thing to watch him lurch from one exhausted day to the next; I want to smash down Woolworths and all building contractors with their stupid shop fittings & tiles.

Last week we bore witness to a phenomenon proudly hosted by Mount Moreland (the village where we live) and 3 million swallows. The tiny birds migrate every year from the North and settle in the reed beds up the road from where we live for 4 months of summer before trekking off again to warmer pastures. At around dusk every day this vast number of birds come swirling down from the heavens creating what can only be described as a visual mind-fuck of nature; spectacularly grand in every way. Then as the sun dips behind the horizon, every single swallow dives into the reed beds and promptly disappears.

This is us setting up our spot to witness the action.

The official Ambassador of the Swallows is a woman by the name of Hilary Vickers. She is an obstreperous old bat, as colonial and uptight as her name suggests. If she catches you disobeying the rules of the conservancy, she will name and shame you on her special chalkboard at the entrance to the village for all the residents to see.

Mike & I are going to sneak out in the middle of the night and write on it in big bold chalk:-

HILARY SWALLOWS.

Pensive

Forgive the blog hiatus. I have been immersed in a lull. A kind of 'non' zone waiting for the days to pass. This short entry is testament to that.

With only 5 weeks to go all this focus on counting down time has robbed us of the present moment and catapulted us into an unknown future, clumsily guessing at what it will feel like to meet our little boy. 

Spent a week in Joburg recently to celebrate Le Baby Shower, which was held in a beautiful park with great food and croquet, just for something different. People lazed about in the Highveld sun from around 10 in the morning until well after 4 in the afternoon. Sign of a good day with good people.

Being back in Joburg did not endear me to the place anymore than when I left; if anything it allowed me pause to realise just how right it was to move away. It did, however, reveal that the absence of friends has left quite a void in my life. It was good to see their faces, hug and talk to them - they are the mud to my inner pig; when I see them I want to roll in them - delightful, wise, gracious creatures that they are. Intelligent, interesting, complex people who I miss out here in our little paradise. In thirteen years of being an intrepid traveller I have learnt the one miserable trade off. A constant undercurrent of grieving for those you leave behind.

According to the midwife, baby's head is engaged and preparing for the grand exit. He weighs 2.5kg and now feels like carrying a sack of flour in my belly, albeit one that migrates. As I lie in the bath watching the rippling movement beneath my skin, I am momentarily spooked.

Sigourney Weaver has alot of explaining to do.