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.

Surfing Widow

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.

Let's hear it for the Double G's

Varicose veins. We've all seen them, they secretly revolt us and we would probably trade a family member to avoid ever getting them. Bending over yesterday, I came face to face with my worst nightmare bulging behind the right knee - pregnancy's good like that; making you face your fears without so much as a beg your pardon. I vow to sit with my legs raised wearing pressure stockings for the remainder of this pregnancy come what may.

Allow me to digress for a moment. Being with Mike and having this baby are the two fundamental sources of happiness in my life before, during and after and for always ever more amen. BUT ... what is happening to my body is a thing unto itself, quite separate - sheer galaxies away from the intense feelings of wonder that I otherwise experience on a day to day basis.

Having understood that, let me continue. With the horror of 'THE VEIN' fresh in my mind I was then treated (by a friend) to some pictures of me on the beach in my preggie bikini, needless to say those photographs will never see the light of day. If only I was a real hippo I would wallow just below the surface where no-one could see me; alas, I am a homo-sapien with no underwater breathing aparatus hence, I must face the world regardless. I contacted a pregnant comrade today to wail about the state of my expanding girth, all whilst murdering a slice of chocolate cake 10cm high.

My universe is a whirling mass of contradiction.

The nursery is taking shape slowly, thanks in part to the GG's - Granny Gardiner (my mom) and Granny Galvin (Mike's mom) - or better yet, Glamorous Grannies.

Once complete we stared suspiciously at it, quietly assessing our realisations of HOLY CHRIST WE ONLY HAVE 11 WEEKS TO GO, then decided to get cheese burgers 'cos that was less confronting. Whilst Granny Gardiner bought us a superduper stroller that basically drives itself. Can't wait to use the one-handed fold down function with its flick of a button and impressive Transformer-like compaction to basically nothing.

Granny Gardiner has also taken to knitting somewhat fiercely and spends her Sunday mornings drinking coffee at Vida Cafe, needles and wool in hand, light jazz playing in the background. Gogo Chic at its finest. She has thus far produced an impressive array of knitted animals and jerseys. Our son will be forced to wear them of course, despite all protests that the wool is itchy and it's 1000 degrees outside.

Still to make their debut appearance are a collection of the smallest, sweetest, softest, unbelievably cute and delicious baby clothes, toys and goodies from family and friends the world over. Once I've unpacked, preened, organised and nested like a little mother hen I will take pics of the nursery in its finality.

We are all otherwise peachy and well. Spring is officially here! We know this by the sudden hive of animal activity on land and sea. Every morning the village dogs howl in eternal frustration as the bitches around them go on heat, safe behind their fences no doubt quietly relieved. The whales are here in full force - massive pods of the beasts cruising up and down the coast in their lazy, ambling, 'I am the biggest fucker in the sea' kind of way. As the weather heats up and the rains follow suit troops of crawlies both great and small appear inside the house.

Last night I killed an enormous spider by dropping a dictionary on its head. Proof at last, that action and words, speak loudest of all...

The 'Been There Done It' Brigade

It’s official. I am a public spectacle. 

People stare at me wherever I go. I wonder about this phenomenon of skeefing pregnant women out then remember that I too have been guilty of this act and hang my head in shame. Hindsight being an exact science and all.

In the case of ogling men it’s obvious - they’re either staring at my boobs or they’re harking back to the days when their partners were sweet & round – either way it creeps me out. But women are different. They stare at me with doe eyes and a sloppy grin and I can see them itching to do or say something but they stop themselves short and just carry on grinning. The belly touching hasn’t started yet although I’m told this happens. Mike is going to be my official belly bouncer.

The other phenomenon I’ve encountered is the Parent-To-Be vs. The Parent-That-Is. They LOVE to warn and horrify you of how wrong you are in all your whimsical fantasies of child-birth and parenthood. Their ranting is harmless and probably quite true, but sometimes I wish they’d let me live in my idealistic world where nappies don’t smell, babies sleep through the night and smile all day long. Let me have my dreams of a picture perfect life where cellulite & stretch marks disappear after birth and breasts magically return to their saggy-free state after breastfeeding.

I get asked questions in that semi-nonchalant way that says; ‘I’m trying to make this sound like it’s not a loaded question but if you don’t answer it correctly I’m going to blow all your expectations out the water’.  It goes a little something like this.

Question: So … (fiddles with hair) what kind of birth are you hoping to have?

Me: (walking into lions den) Well I’m obviously open to whatever needs to happen on the day but my wish is to have an active, natural birth without any assistance or pain medication.

Stare (commence onslaught) Pffft!! That’s what they all say! But trust me! On the day you’ll be screaming down the walls for that pethidine from your first contraction and oh just you WAIT til 2nd stage labour you’d give away your husband for an epidural and then you tear open from your bellybutton to your bumhole and they stitch you up without any anaesthetic and then they hand you this screaming infant that won’t latch onto your breasts which get so engorged with milk that they will explode and then they send you home and then you will spend THE REST OF YOUR LIFE SUFFERING SLEEP DEPRIVATION AND OH BOY, FORGET ABOUT ALL THE THINGS YOU’VE EVER WANTED TO ACHIEVE IN YOUR LIFE AND WHATEVER YOU DO DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT EVER HAVING SEX AGAIN EVER, EVER, NOT NEVER!!!!!!!! (pant pant)

Me: (back away from crazy person with the wild eyes and flying spittle)

Work as an independent consultant for the public health sector is fantastic and I'm in full swing with this 'home executive' bizzo. Can multi-task cleaning the toilets and saving the world quite smartly. Mike is building his company brick by brick, now we're just waiting for this pesky recession to pass. We recently spent some time in the Drakensberg and on the South Coast chilling our melons and watching the whales cruise by.

We went for a scan this afternoon, baby is 1.2kgs and growing rapidly; as my belly protrudes steadily outwards my back bends into an abnormal curvature hence there is a constant ache to my bones. Bending over to pick something up requires me to part my legs in a kind of plie whilst clutching my lower back octogenarian style. My butt is growing proportionately to my stomach which I think is nature's way of ensuring I maintain an equilibrium whilst standing upright. Maternity is just a thinly disguised version of the word 'eternity' which is how pregnancy feels some days.

Dop 'n Tjop

Whoever said pregnancy was a fully enlightening and spiritual experience of bonding and passage into womanhood was deluded.

Being on the wagon for 9 months is boring as bat shit. My kingdom for a glass or two of full bodied Merlot or a tall G&T to take the edge off the end of a long day. They say 1 to 2 units of alcohol per week is perfectly acceptable – oh please. What’s the point! I’ve tried ‘letting my hair down’ whilst sober; it just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

As for bonding I have a small human inside me who reminds me that we’re ‘bonded’ all day long. Like when I’m just falling asleep and he decides to take a walk around my uterus, or when he gives my bladder a stiff poke and I have to get up for the umpteenth time in the middle of the night to pee. His only job is to grow and be born and then to wreak havoc on our world. It’ll be at least 25 years before he appreciates any of it.

We went to a braai on Saturday with our first ‘kid friendly’ group of people. 3 of us were pregnant. The other 3 couples had 2 kids each – all under 5 – all evil, screaming, unruly, undisciplined little monsters. The mothers spent the afternoon running around delivering streams of futile threats (as one child smashed another in the face with a set of keys); whilst the fathers stood in unified impotence at the braai drinking beer; apparently deaf or retarded, possibly both. The scene reached riot proportions. Us 3 pregnant women sat dumbfounded in a corner, diet coke in one trembling hand, boerie roll in the other staring in terror at our impending fate.

‘If there is a god’ I prayed ‘please a) smite these children down just for one hour so that I can eat my chop in piece and b) ensure that my children are well behaved little angels – thank you. Oh, and c) please include the fathers in the smiting for being so crap and useless – amen’.

Judging other people. It’s a thrilling alternative to being pissed.

What else? Mike is project managing the modernisation of a lardy-da food and retail store here in eThekwini which is top notch. I am consulting on 3 different HIV-related projects – involving lots of research and report writing. So hurrah hurrah there is hope for our strung-out flat-broke arses after all.

We keep to ourselves mostly and haven’t mingled much with the locals, although Mike does have a group of surfing mates we see from time to time. Durbanites are an odd bunch though. They have this uber-religious thing going on. My brother who lived here for 6 years says Durban is a mecca for jesus freaks. Who knew? I don’t really get it but I must learn to stop saying ‘fuck’ so much.

My non belief in all things biblical was challenged recently when it appeared we’d been struck by a plague of frogs. The little padda’s found their way under the door jambs to shelter in the warmth of our home. Six froggies over two nights all whilst Mike was out working and I was painted to the couch watching Oprah and Desperate Housewives.

Here's celebrating my round bits ...