Letter to Bobbin - 20 weeks

Hi there, Bobbin!

I'm your mama. Right now you only know me as that chick you kick and make puke, but that's OK, we'll meet before you know it and I'll become the chick with the milk.

All of a sudden, I'm just over half way through this pregnancy and I'm not entirely sure how it happened. Sure I could count back the weeks or look at a calendar but I'm more inclined to believe that there is a rip in the space time continuum. It's the only possible explanation, I'm certain. Perhaps your babydaddy is Dr Who and not Map Guy?

Time is flying by so quickly and there are a million and one things to do before you arrive, including give you a name. I've been calling you GlowBaby but you are hereby blog-named Bobbin. 

On a side note, naming a baby is the hardest thing to do ever and I have to do it twice! Bobbin was the first name I thought of when I first found out you were there, and I keep going back to it, so Bobbin it is. 

In some ways this pregnancy is very similar to when I had your brother. You are a now you see it, now you don't, baby. Some days I'm all tummy and others it's still in the food baby territory. Tricky didn't make himself obviously visible until after half way, and you seem to be the same.

But, wow, did you ever make yourself known in ways your brother never did! You sure do know how to make your mama feel sick, little one! And the flutters? You have been wriggling around so much that I could feel it very early on. After a few nights of feeling the teensiest of flutters I leaned over to your Dad and whispered "if I didn't know any better, I'd swear I could feel the baby moving already!".

The flutters from 13 weeks have progressed to full on thumps and kicks now, and your Dad can feel them easily - with Tricky it was hard for anyone to feel them but me because his super squishy placenta cushion was in the way... yours is in the way elsewhere and mama has placenta previa. I'm a bit bummed, but we don't know what will happen so there is no point worrying.

I got to hear your heartbeat a few weeks ago and last week I got to see you... well, I'm told it was you. I could kinda make out some bones and what I thought was a fish, so I will just have to believe the sonographer that it was you. It made me so happy to see you wriggling around in there that I found it really hard to talk and choked up a bit. Mama's hormones are most definitely in a whirl.

The very good news is your heart looks amazing and the sutures in your skull are all open at this stage... they'll have to be checked again before you're born and for a while after too, but I'm sure you won't mind, and I'll make sure it doesn't hurt. We found out your sex, too, but I'll see if I can keep that a secret a bit longer... though we did tell your grandparents because they were dying to know! I'm rather terrible at keeping my own secrets so I don't know how long that will last - a week, maybe?

Keep on kicking and keep on cooking, my little Bobbin. I'll see you in August.

Love Mama xxx

I'm a rageaholic. I'm addicted to rageahol.

I have become The Incredible Glow-Hulk. Or Glulk, if you will. I know, it sounds pretty shit, but Ima run with it. Run with it as far as a crappy photoshop job complete with sea-sick green wash and popping veins will take me.

 
Last pregnancy I was earth mother. Well, as earth mother as I can get. I'd never felt calmer or more secure in myself. I even managed to come completely off medications that had gotten me through what I like to deem the "straight jacket years". It was all rose coloured glasses& chirping birds on window sills, not unlike a scene from a Disney movie.

This pregnancy could not be further from that. Earth mother? Hell no. Rage mother is more like it. My default emotion right now is anger. Pure, bubbling, oh-the-injustice, how-dare-you anger!

Everything, EVERYTHING, is making me angry.

Take for example the age old phenomenon of males leaving the toilet seat up. This has never annoyed me before - I'm of the opinion that if we both use the facilities why must it be left how I like it? What makes me so special that I can't put it down? But a few nights ago, when I unceremoniously fell in to the toilet in the middle of the night, I was ready to declare war and the words I muttered under my breath to describe MG's actions were, well, colorful to say the least.

It doesn't matter how tiny the issue is, I'll be cranky.

Shops due to open at 9am and according to my no doubt fast watch they didn't open til 9:01.... UNACCEPTABLE! RAGE!!! WHERE IS THE COMPLAINT FORM?!

Leftovers eaten by someone else even though I hadn't declared I wanted them? OFF WITH HIS HEAD!!! THAT WAS MY FUCKING PIZZA!!

Stub my toe on a shoe that I have left in the way? THE WORLD IS AT FAULT! ALL SHOES IN THE BIN!!

The rose coloured glasses have been smashed under foot for their mocking rosiness. The birds on the windowsill, clever little bastards that they are, are long gone, no doubt fearful I would fashion a ging out of some bobby pins and hair elastics MacGyver style, and take them out one by one.

As much as I can see it happening and am trying my hardest to control it (by swearing on the inside and developing facial tics), Poor MapGuy is suffering. From his proximity, he is the one who has witnessed this more than anyone. And by witness I obviously mean felt the brunt of. 

It truly is one of the most unattractive of things to see your preggo wife stroke her swelling bump then look up, shoot daggers and say "stop doing that or I will cut you".

At times like this I find it helpful to remember the positives... that I am not an elephant and this state will not last for two years, merely another four and a half months.

Were you a rageaholic when up the duff? How did you stop from killing people?

I'm not packing my mother guilt... or am I?

When I go away alone I zoom around going one million miles an hour, cramming as much awesomeness in to a short space of time as is humanly possible, and as awful as it may sound, I don't really miss my boys. I'm just too busy to.

I love my boy more than I can possibly describe and I (generally) enjoy being a stay at home mum to the Trickster...

But I'd be lying to you if the thought of hanging out with adults, uninterrupted sleep and not having to help someone to the toilet didn't excite me to the point of frothing at the mouth. Although depending on how much my friends have to drink, that last one may came up anyway.

I've been to four conferences and two blogging shindigs since the Trickster was born and he's only come to one of them because he was very little (and constantly on the boob) and Map Guy came along too for a bit of a holiday - the other times they've stayed home for some male bonding time. I've left for between one and three nights and it's only at the airport on the way home (or in a bath tub drunk as a skunk - don't ask) that the excitement of the time away fades and the realization that I haven't seen my boys in a while kicks in.

I don't feel guilty for leaving. For taking just a smidge of time to do something for myself. For lumping all the responsibilities on to Map Guy for a few days and having a bit of a holiday with some friends who I only see once every year or two.

As with any conference, I'm a ball of raw nerves and anxiety. But this time you can throw in some freaky strong hormones that have me swinging wildly from a blubbering mess to the Incredible Hulk. This previously reluctant-hugger is more than likely going to be hugging and crying then wanting to punch a cab driver in the throat (I have a thing with cab drivers, it's a long story). I may not have met you before, but I will be all gropey, guaranteed.

I'm now taking bets on just how long I last with the afore mentioned hormones coursing through my veins before I whip out my phone and come over with an attack of the mama guilts over photos of Tricky and MG, wailing to all and sundry that I MISS THEM! I MISS MY BOYS!! I WANNA GO HOOOOOOOOOOOOOME!!

Do you get the mama guilts and miss your babies? Or are you too busy having a break to realize?

How to survive the first day of day care

Your sweet child is starting day care. None of this half day, play date, introduction bullshit. The actual real deal where you leave. For hours. What do you do? How do you cope?

Well, luckily for you I've put together this handy step by step guide on how to get through the day. You're welcome.

It's all about being prepared.

1. In the week leading up to day care, make sure to mention how much of an awesome time the child had the previous week. Try a sing-song voice, use jazz hands and interpretive dance to convey just how amazing it really is.
2. Run around like a man/woman possessed at 11:48pm the night before because you have only just remembered you need to label the thirty pairs of shorts and jocks you're sending along with your newly toilet trained toddler.
3. Act like a clown on crack on the morning of the big day. Happy, happy, joy, joy and all that shit. This is going to be The Best Day Ever!
4. When you arrive and the kid starts whingeing that they no longer want to go, despite having jumped for joy at the prospect mere moments ago, forge on in. Skip if you must.
5. Take the obligatory "first day photo". Wonder when your kid got so freakin' big.
   
   
6. Promise you'll be back, promise extra big cuddles, a trip to Disneyland, whatever it takes to make your spawn put away his quivering bottom lip. No matter what, KEEP IT TOGETHER!
7. Follow the lead of the carer who suggests your child wave over the fence as you drive off. Bolt to the car and burst in to floods of tears. Drive off tooting and waving like a maniac.
8. Come home and lay on the couch feeling like the worst parent ever despite the fact that this is going to be really good for the boy.
9. Do ALL THE HOUSEWORK. Make a mess preparing a massive casserole, drop some on the floor and pick it up and eat it - the floor is cleaner than an operating room right now so might as well.
10. Watch the clock. Wonder how soon is too soon to call and check.
11. Have a cup of tea. Marvel at how it tastes so different when consumed hot.
12. Call the day care centre. Fret when it goes to message bank four times. Finally get through and hear that your spawn has been whingeing a little bit for mum but not crying and easily distracted with ALL THE TOYS. On hearing that he is asleep at noon, feel sure that they must have drugged him.
13. Watch the clock some more. Clean some more. Put music on with swear words just because you can.
14. Cave in and pick up the kid half an hour earlier than you said you would. Find him sitting with his peers eating afternoon tea.
15. When he sees you and his lip quivers and he flops in to your arms with an "oh you DID come back" sigh, burst in to tears in front of the staff. They've seen it all before and will just ignore it but the other toddlers might think you're weird though... it's best they learn now anyway.
16. When your child hands you their first piece of "day care art" feel immensely proud despite the fact that it is just a box with red paint slopped all over it. Proceed to get teary again like the giant sap you are. Then feel a bit weird and wonder how long you actually have to keep it for.
    
    
17. Listen to him describe how he called "Mum! Mum!" as you drove off tooting the horn. Die a little bit inside.
18. Go home and give your kid an icecream and ask him if he wants to go back to day care next week. When he asks "Will you come back?" cry floods of tears again and promise that you will always, always come back for him no matter what.

I'm promised it gets easier. It better.

Were you a wreck on the first day of day care? Exactly how long do I have to keep the art work for?

Hack Job

There is no doubt that Tricky is a shaggy headed boy.

When I visited my grandmother recently the first words out of her mouth were "He needs a haircut". Closely followed by "What's his name again?" She certainly has her priorities.

But she was right. As much a fan as I am of the shag, he was in need of a trim having slipped from shaggy to scruffy in recent weeks.

Shaggy-headed, sushi-eating Tricky, 5 minutes before his hair cut

As usual, the kid sat there unmoving, shooting daggers at her through the mirror and pouting. Most hairdressers say he's well behaved and I tend to just let them think that rather than point out if looks could kill they'd be long gone by now.

Just a trim, so it's out of his eyes, I said.

She started to cut.

She noticed his scars and I said that they were one reason I liked it long. The shaggy look covers a lot of the lumps and bumps caused by his surgeries. She started chatting about the resilience of kids and all the while her scissor-happy hands flew around his poor head.

On leaving the hairdresser I couldn't see how bad it was because it was still wet. All I could tell was it that was much shorter than I'd asked... then it dried. And I cried.

Turns out, when she said "I'll put in a few layers" she meant "I'll wildly hack at your kid's head and make him look stupid".

A few people suggested that it looked like he'd got the scissors out himself. Or that I'd been embracing my frugal side and giving home haircuts. 

After I'd finished crying about it I started crying over the fact that I'd been crying over hair. Hair that grows back. Hair that doesn't matter in the big picture.

Then I looked at him, he gave me the biggest, cheesiest smile, and that gorgeous face juxtaposed with that horrid hair meant I cried some more. He didn't give a shit what his hair looked like, all he cared about was if I was going to play cars with him or not. So I played cars and tried not to cry. I'm extremely hormonal right now, can you tell? GIVE ME SOME CHOCOLATE AND I WILL STOP CRYING.

I did complain to the manager and she attempted to fix it despite me almost having convulsions when she came at his head with scissors, so it's even shorter now and a little bowl-esque. But it will grow.

And all of a sudden I have a boy and not a baby.

Have you/your kid had a bad haircut? Did you cry/complain/eat copious amounts of chocolate?

A hairy situation

Hormones akimbo is a good way to describe pregnancy. Hormones do all sorts of cool things - like make ligaments stretchy enough to accommodate a growing baby, and quite a few not so nice things too – like turning your once quite normal face in to an acne filled grease ball and robbing you of your well deserved Glow.

I've had my fair share of hormonal dramas these past months (being teary one minute and a major cranky pants the next) but there is one effect that I have only just realised... the hair on my legs has stopped growing!

The hair on your head falls out less whilst your up the duff (which means my already thick hair is now bordering on a 'fro) so I assumed the rest of my body would follow suit and pretty soon I would look like I just walked out of the jungles of the Amazon, but apparently not.

To save money I switched from waxing to shaving when I realised there would soon be one less income and one more mouth to feed in our household. Through pure laziness though I didn't pay attention to the state of my legs – at the beginning I was feeling too nauseous to care then as time went by my tummy got in the way so 'out of sight, out of mind' came in to the equation. I probably wouldn't have noticed the lack of hair at all if it wasn't for one very strange phenomenon that Hubby pointed out to me as he sat there chatting to me while I soaked in a nice warm bath... MY KNEES WERE HAIRY!

No where else on my legs does the hair grow at the moment, so here I am with two very hairy knees in comparison to the rest of me. I have no idea how this is even possible - why my knees? They're not usually an area of the body affected by hormonal hair - it is much more likely for a preggo to develop a hairy chin or lip. It seriously looked like a pair of spiders had decided to make a home half way up my legs. With two quick flicks of a razor the spiders were sent on their merry way and a hairy knee crisis was averted. I'm just lucky that it wasn't a hairy ankle fiasco because I can barely reach those suckers now!

Interestingly when the baby is born all the accumulated hair on your head starts falling out and a lot of new mothers think they are going bald – but its just playing catch up really. I just hope my leg hair doesn't decide to go the same way and come back with a vengeance! Does anyone have a whipper snipper I can borrow just in case?

A pain in the ...

For the last couple of weeks my right hip has been really sore to the point where I limp when I walk. After a quick consult with a physiotherapist at the antenatal classes I decided to go and have it checked out properly since it didn't appear to be going away on its own accord. So today I toddled off to a physiotherapist that specialises in antenatal and postnatal issues, partly because the woman I spoke to at the antenatal class worked there and partly because these hips have a lot of work to do soon and I don't want anyone screwing them up any further!

My pain started in my sit bones... that's right people, its basically my bum. Typical. I would be the one to get bum pain. I'm reminded of Sharon Osborne who, after being diagnosed with colon cancer said “Why'd they have to find it in my bum, of all places? It's embarrassing. I mean, why couldn't I have a cute little heart shaped polyp on my vagina?” Not that I'm comparing hip pain to colon cancer, but you get my point – why there?!

The pain has been getting worse and has now moved around the front too, and instead of a dull ache its more of a sharp shooting pain that makes it look like I've just stepped on a piece of glass. On the upside, the limp disguises the waddle marvellously. It is also starting to aggravate my previously broken coccyx – broken, I might add, by Hubby's knee one night about two and a half years ago while he was having a particularly violent dream. To make it worse, he didn't even wake up when he did it!

The diagnosis?

Pelvic instability and more specifically a rotated Sacroiliac joint in turn causing Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction (whomever named that really liked the letter Y, I think). Which basically means my hips are moving in directions they shouldn't be.

The cause?

Well I have always had really lax ligaments (meaning that if they gave them out, I'd get a gold star at every yoga class for most resembling a pretzel) and if you combine that with the Relaxin hormone getting me ready for birth you have a pretty good chance of sore hips.

The treatment?

About half an hour of excruciating “massage” of my hip followed by the application of strapping tape. Yes, dear readers, my ass is taped up. It looks highly amusing, like I've accidentally sat down on someone's discarded ankle strapping. I'm tempted to drop my dacks just to show people how silly it looks. “Excuse me? Hi, you don't know me, but check out my butt, isn't it hilarious?!”

I go back in a few days time to have the whole thing done again, but until then I have some exercises to do and the instruction to not put my legs at a right angle to my body. This is simple to fix, I just sit on cushion to elevate my hips above my knees – but cushion sitting does make look like I've got haemorrhoids. I guess its the price I'll have to pay.

The prognosis?

A few sessions and taping is apparently all I'll need to get my hip in working order... funnily enough the lax ligaments that have caused the pain in the first place mean it will be quicker and easier to fix! Hooray for me.

Did you or your partner have any pregnancy ailments? Did you have to have your bum strapped too?

Cry me a river... or an entire flood plain

I've spoken about pregnancy hormones on Where's My Glow a few times already (here and here) and how they've been playing havoc with me. Whilst I'm still experiencing this phenomenon (which Hubby refers to as the “Psycho Bitch from Hell” phase) a new symptom has decided to rear its ugly head. The tears.

Everything, and I really mean that, no exaggerations here at all, everything makes me cry.

I have always been a bit of a crier and see it as a disability of sorts. If I get angry or frustrated, hot tears start to prickle at my eyes and WHAM I'm crying. This is fine if you're mid argument with someone, but in a work situation it makes me look like a silly little girl who can't control her emotions. Well you should see me now! I don't even need to get anywhere near anger or frustration because I start crying at “oh how unfortunate” and even “that's so adorable”.

The other morning I was getting my Weetbix ready and managed to spill the milk (can you see where this is going?). My interior monologue went something like this: “Oops. That was stupid. You're so stupid. You can't do ANYTHING right EVER AGAIN! You're going to be a TERRIBLE MOTHER.” I cannot say what happened in the nanosecond between oops and terrible mother – a strange force had taken over me. So the tears started. Just really small, almost cute tears until Hubby thought he would try to cheer me up by saying with a giggle “Haven't you heard the saying about crying over spilt milk?” Then the real tears started. Big, fat, slide down your face and plop on to the table tears. I swear I could hear a little splash as a giant pool started forming. At this point a rather shocked Hubby suggested very gently (quite possibly while protecting his manhood with a chopping board) that maybe I should go back to bed for a few minutes and try again soon while he cleaned up the 2ml of milk from the bench. So I plodded off down the hallway, wailing like a banshee to bury myself under the doona.

I think I could handle the crying if there was some sort of pattern I could prepare for. But it is totally unpredictable and so frustrating that it brings me to, well, tears actually. I'm not sure which is better, being a psycho who you don't want to mess with for fear of losing valuable body parts, or “that pregnant woman who cries all the time”. Either way I've started counting down to Tricky's birth not just because I'm looking forward to meeting him, but because hopefully it means the rollercoaster of hormones will be coming to an end.

“And then he ran in to my knife...”

There is a fantastic scene from the fourth series of British comedy, Coupling, where a very pregnant Susan is having a fight with her partner, Steve. Steve mentions that its unfair how now she is pregnant she has an excuse for everything: all she has to do is say “HORMONES” and suddenly she's off the hook. He laments further, claiming if she can say that when he too is full of hormones (like everybody else) then why can't he, during an argument say “Sorry dear, testicles”.

Which brings me to my point (yep, I've got one). I've always thought that the excuse of “hormones” was a bit pathetic. I've never really been a big PMS sufferer so have never had to grasp the concept that strange chemicals being released by your ovaries could change your behaviour so much. So pregnancy and its trillions of hormones have created a very steep learning curve for me. To put it bluntly, I've turned in to a bitch.

We've all had those days when everything goes wrong; you're running late, the car in front stalls, the woman putting through our groceries seems more interested in telling you her life story than actually scanning your Weetbix box and you're ready to snap. At these times we (meaning I) smile politely and nod, while in our heads we are saying nasty things we wouldn't dream of ever saying out loud. It's a handy mute button feature that saves us from being punched in the face. These days, even after twelve years of Catholic schooling teaching me to turn the other cheek and 'do unto others' etc, my mute button has started to fail.

So far I've been able to restrain myself and this faulty volume control has not been unleashed on an unsuspecting public. No, much worse than that – it is directed at those people who least deserve it (not that the check out chick deserves it, I'm sure she's lovely). Hubby has so far had to deal with the majority of it, albeit with what I believe are truly courteous warnings before hand such as “Watch out I'm cranky and you're within striking distance”.

The other person to be on the receiving end is my sister, although I'm not actually being mean to her, I just use her to vent to. Its quite cathartic for me, and she gets a kick out of getting the latest gossip about whomever has pushed my buttons that day.

But are these victims people actually pushing my buttons? Has everyone suddenly gotten stupider and more annoying? Plain and simple answer is no, I've just turned in to a super sensitive hormone filled sack without an ounce of tact.

It reminds me of my favourite song from the musical Chicago which I was lucky enough to see on stage this week for the fifth time (slightly obsessed). It's called 'Cell Block Tango' and its women singing about the men they have killed – they say that it was a murder but not a crime - would 'hormones' hold up in court as grounds for justifiable homicide? For Hubby's sake, maybe don't tell me the answer. “...He ran in to my knife TEN TIMES!”

An A-Z of Pregnancy Part I

Ante-natal Classes – Hubby and I are signed up for ante-natal classes in March and I'm half dreading it. My only point of reference is the movies, so I expect to be taught how to breathe Lamaze style “hee heee hoooooooooo” and feel like a total idiot. Plus the inevitable birth videos which can also be called “horror porn”. So much to look forward to.

Breasts – I've always been rather generously endowed in the breast department, and since falling pregnant my cup definitely doth spilleth over, and I'm only just over half way – what will these suckers look like when I'm actually breastfeeding? Meanwhile Hubby is more than pleased with developments and I can't fit in to any of my button up shirts.

Cravings – Get pregnant and you'll crave icecream and pickles is what I was told. So far though I haven't really had what you could call cravings. There has been no insatiable urges that could only be quashed by sending Hubby on a midnight run. My tastes have definitely changed though, a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich really hits the spot, and where I previously didn't like McDonald's I could now eat a cheeseburger (or two, or three) a day!

Daddy – Hubby's role hasn't really changed yet, and according to the old saying “a women becomes a mother when she is pregnant, a man becomes a father when he holds his child” it won't for quite a while yet. But I do love it when he leans his ear to my round belly and listens to hear the movement, then talks to him... its normally something along the lines of “So hows things in amniotic world?” and its a rather one sided conversation.

Expanding – Is the medical world entirely sure that babies grow in bellys? Because my bum is getting enormous. Even when taking in to consideration the cheeseburgers it seems bigger than it should be. The average weight gain up to this point in a pregnancy is just over 6kg and I've so far put on 2kg... and its all in my bum.

Feet – Those suckers are getting harder and harder to reach as my increasing girth prevents me from bending down completely. I can still see them... for now.

Grandparents – Tricky is the first grandchild on both sides for our families and the reaction to his impending arrival has been very different. Hubby's parents were first to know and were enthusiastic but trying not to get too thrilled as it was still early days. Nowadays Mother-In-Law is getting very excited and was the first to purchase anything for Tricky, a beautiful blanket, while Father-In-Law is understandably blasé about something he can't see yet. My parents found out when I was twelve weeks because they were away overseas. My dad was almost bouncing off the walls at the announcement and my mother looked horrified – she was to be a Grandmother! Thats for old people!

Hormones – There are a lot of these suckers surging through my body at the moment, and they all seem to have really interesting names; you've got your standard progesterone and oestrogen but then there is Lutenising hormone, Oxytocin, beta Human Chorionic Gondatropin hormone. Some of these increase by up to 1000% while you're pregnant which makes for a great excuse for when ever you're in a bad mood/forget to do something/accidentally kill your husband!

Ignorant – I've never really been around infants before. I've held some of them, sure. But not for more than a few minutes after which I heaved a sigh of relief at being able to hand them back to their mum or dad. So I'm wondering if I'll be actually able to care for Tricky 24/7? I have no one to off load him to when I get tired/grumpy/bored. I'm not completely ignorant though, I'm pretty good with toddlers because I like playing and colouring in is one of my all time favourite past-times.