She said she liked it better than Pirates of Penzance

This is a C2 post. Opinions are my own.

#C2 for full details please see my disclosure policy

Coming home from martial arts the other night, MapGuy asked if I'd had a good training session.

"I liked it better than Pirates of Penzance" I said. 

He looked at me blankly.

Turns out his aptitude for pop culture references is not as advanced as mine. Shame. 

But the Pretty Woman fans amongst us will know it was a sly way of saying I trained so hard I almost peed my pants.

Last week my friend and I we were talking about me flipping MG to the ground in a take down defence, and kicking butt and I said I was going to try my hardest because "I'm not wearing a sports bra and a liner for nothing!", adding "TENA should sponsor me!". We laughed the way only girlfriends who have both had gigantic babies can.

The last time MapGuy ever hugs me from behind! From standing to flat on the floor in 3 seconds.

So when this info from TENA arrived in my inbox, I thought perhaps my house was bugged, then had a giggle. I didn't PMSL, but if i had of, it would have been OK. 

I have the habit of oversharing. But what happens when I do it, is that most of the time, whoever I'm talking to will chime in with a "me too" story. And you guessed it, needing to wear a liner for sports is almost always a "me too" moment. Despite us all doing pelvic floor exercises, sometimes it still happens. Just look at all those Cross Fit wee photos. 

Most of my mum friends are a tad nervous when it comes to physical activity like jumping or lifting weights. For those who have no idea, and are lucky enough to have no issue, I'm not saying we wet our pants the way a kid does. We're talking droplets.

But those droplets can freak you out and, well, they just feel awful.

So I never go to training without a liner. Screw the stigma. 

Incontinence (yep, I used the real word) is more common than you think, affecting 1 in 3 women and 1

in 10 men within Australia.

TENA has created infographics to help simplify it for us. Because everyone loves an infographic.

See the bit down the bottom? It's only tiny, but it says free samples are available. They'll send you out a pack with a couple different ones to try. Oh, and it's a plain envelope, by the way, so if you're not down with smashing the stigma just yet, that's cool, too! 

Contraception Conundrum

Image via CC Hey Paul Studios

It seems like all my friends are pregnant right now.

Every time I turn around there is an announcement, baby showers, the purchasing of miniature clothing that costs more than it's full size counterpart, and scrummy newborn pictures. 

And I feel... absolutely nothing.

I can get caught up in the excitement of their pregnancies and I genuinely coo over their beautiful babes, but there is no "ooomph, my ovaries" or "maybe just one more?" questions. 

It's pretty bloody nice, I have to admit.

I feel done. I gave away all our baby stuff, but so many people tell me that it's transient, that the next squished up, hollering, poo machine I see will instantly turn me to mush and I'll be asking for all that plastic crap back.

But here I am. Still feeling nothing. Still enjoying feeling nothing.

I felt done with two even as I was still pregnant with Bobbin. I soaked up the (relatively few) enjoyable parts of the pregnancy as "my last" from the moment I knew there was a little blob of cells there. I'm not sure what it is, I just don't see myself with more than two. Perhaps years of watching 'Outnumbered' on the ABC? 

I've been seriously considering getting sterilised despite feeling like I'm talking about a pet and wondering if I have to wear the cone of shame after surgery whenever I say it. So a tubal ligation is on the cards. Hell, I'd totally consider the whole hysterectomy while I'm there, thankyouverymuch.

I don't like this implant in my arm, ain't no chance I'm having an IUD (so many of those fuckers migrate or cause MAJOR dramas - calm down those who love them, I'm glad they work for you), I barely remember to brush my teeth so taking a tablet every day isn't reliable, and whilst I don't mind condoms I'm petrified they'll break. 

MG and I are in a very enviable position for a lot of people. We've tried for a baby three times and conceived first time, every time. Our first was ectopic and I lost my tube (I should totes get a discount on a tubal ligation, yes? Half price?), then Tricks, then Bobbin. In my mind, a broken condom = instant baby. No really, I have nightmares where we have sex (OK that bit isn't the nightmare part, that sounded bad), then in the dream I wake up the next day ready to give birth.

With so many struggling with fertility, IVF, miscarriages and the like, I feel almost guilty for our "problem", I know people who would swap places with me in a heartbeat, and I've struggled with that. Fertile guilt, if you will. Pathetic, I know, but my Catholic upbringing has enshrined in me a deep seated guilt over everything and anything.

However it doesn't take away the fact that I'm done having kids and in the almost two years since Bobbin was born (wait, what?), that feeling of completeness in our family size hasn't wavered. I'm done. I'm happy. I have two great kids. 

But tubal ligation is just so permanent. I change my mind about what I want for dinner, how can I know I won't change my mind about this? When I umm and ahh about chicken or steak I'm not vowing to never eat the other one ever again. EVER AGAIN. Ah man, I don't know what to do. Help?

How are my reproductive organs like a Madden Brothers song?

I'm retiring my uterus.

In the words of the Madden Brothers in their little earwormy tune, we are done. Done, done, done, done, done, done, we are done. 

She has done me well. It has held two children for a total of just over 82 weeks, then pushed them out when their lease was up. It needs a golden handshake or a watch, or whatever it is you get when you retire these days.

It feels like the right thing to do. I feel finished. It isn't because I have the often hoped for "pigeon pair" (I saw myself with two boys in my dreams), it's because that urge to procreate is gone.

I don't yearn for more babies, though I reserve the right to coo over newborns in the future... then hand them back. I don't feel sad that I'll never be pregnant or give birth again, on the contrary, I don't think my hips could handle pregnancy again, so I'm actually glad.

Over the long weekend I packed up all of Bobbin's baby things, ready to pass them on. Some were Tricky's too, so there are lots of memories attached to them.

Instead of feeling sad that this chapter is ending, I was overjoyed to be getting so much junk out of my house. For such tiny creatures their stuff takes up so much bloody room. 

I watched Bumbos, walkers, rockers, toys, hammocks and stretchy wraps being loaded in to my brother- and sister-in-law's car, ready for their babe who is still a'cookin' and it was brilliant. I'm excited for them, and I'm over the moon to have a niece or nephew. Because aunties rock.

I've known quite a few people who got rid of everything and then unexpectedly fell pregnant as if the world was waiting for them to sell so they'd have to buy all that crap again. So right now I'm shit scared. Going by our track record of getting pregnant first try, every time (which is enviable to anyone struggling to conceive but terrifying for us when we don't want any more), one mistake and the pitter patter of tiny feet will be heard once more. So as I handed them over to SIL I told her they were a looooong term loan just in case the universe was listening, ya know?

Now comes the hard part. Convincing MapGuy to get the snip. Any and all advice to convince a bloke to willingly let a doctor come towards his crown jewels with a scalpel is much appreciated.

Are you "done"? Or do you still feel the urge to create tiny little poo machines? How did you know?

The waterbirth of Bobbin

I don’t know how to write this. The words in my sleep deprived brain do not do justice to the awesome, empowering experience that was bringing Bobbin earth side. I sit here, my babe in my arms, the glow of the computer screen on her cherub face and wonder if there are any words to describe the magic? Probably, but not in this mama's head, so a word vomit will have to do.

Let me take you back to Monday the 26th of August. I will remember it forever as a day of laughter and so much joy.

At 41+1 weeks pregnant I was wondering when the big event was going to happen. I was eager to meet my little girl but didn’t want to rush her – I wanted her to choose her own birthday. Everyone around me assumed I would be getting very frustrated but other than the excruciating hip pain that had me barely able to walk at the end (thanks in part to the whole getting run over thing), I was actually OK. Impatient, but still OK. If it had been the height of summer I have no doubt it would have been very different.

I figured I needed to relax so I booked a pregnancy massage for the next morning. I booked knowing that their cancelation policy required at least 12 hours notice and I’d lose a cool $100 if I didn’t show up.

At 2:30pm I had an appointment with one of my midwives at the Family Birth Centre attached to King Edward Memorial Hospital. She offered to do an internal to see if I was dilating already, and to do a stretch and sweep if I wanted. I was 1cm but still thick. I thought it was proof Bobbin wasn’t ready yet but the midwife thought different as I managed to have a contraction while she was examining me. I didn’t feel it. She said I’d be back in tonight to have a baby. I said I’d cross my fingers but wouldn’t hold my breath.

I went home and kept having a few minor tightenings. Nothing painful. I tried to time them but was having difficulty because they were so mild that sometimes I couldn’t quite tell if it was there or not. At 4:00pm the midwife called to see how I was going. I laughed at her certainty and brushed it off but at the same time hoped that she was right. All I knew for sure was that I trusted my body to do what it needed to do.

As soon as I hung up the phone I started to have a few crampy feelings. They got a little stronger and though still irregular, at almost 4:30pm I cancelled the massage appointment. I am, after all, a tight ass when it comes to money.

Knowing that Tricky had been born so quickly I was told to come in as soon as possible when things started happening, so despite not being sure if I was actually in labour or not, my fear of a freeway baby saw me call the Birth Centre at 5pm to let them know we would come back in. The contractions were still irregular (anywhere from 1minute apart to 10 minutes apart) and still not painful at all but I didn’t particularly feel like being that girl on the news with the kid born in the emergency lane in the pouring rain.

My parents picked up Tricky and he went off for a sleep over – because I still wasn’t convinced I was in labour we didn’t tell him. I felt for sure we’d go in and be there for hours and be sent home. I texted my student midwife who has followed my pregnancy and come to my appointments from 16 weeks, letting her know what was happening.

We arrived at the Birth Centre just after 6:00pm and went to room one. There were still a few after hours appointments happening so the midwife was coming between us and the other women. I heard her on the phone calling my team midwife, Caroline. “I’d say she’s definitely in labour”. She was certain and yet I still didn’t think I was as I wasn't in any pain, just slightly uncomfortable.

Map Guy put the TENS electrodes on my back and while bouncing on the birth ball we chatted and laughed. Each time I got a contraction I would beam and say “Another one! Oooh it was a bit stronger!”. They were starting to hurt a little but were only lasting about 30 seconds. I was so excited BUT STILL didn’t think I was anywhere near giving birth… until my waters broke just before 7:00pm! It was a small pop and only a small amount of fluid, but enough to see that it was nice and clear.

So this was it! I finally believed I was in labour!

I went back to my birth ball and when the next contraction hit I redefined labour glamour with a good litre or so of amniotic fluid coming out. All over the ball, all over the floor. Map Guy and I were in fits of laugher because it just wouldn’t stop! We couldn’t find where the towels were hidden so he popped his head out the door:

“Um, could we get a towel please? Or a mop?”

It took three giggling midwives and six towels to clean me up before I could get back to my bouncing. The contractions were getting more frequent but not regular and only mildly painful. Caroline asked if I’d mind if another student attended the birth and I thought why not. The more the merrier. You gotta learn somewhere, right? So I had Caroline, the on call midwife and two students coming in intermittently to check on Bobbin and I.

At 8:30pm I was offered an internal to see how far along I was. Because I was planning on using the water for pain relief and didn’t want to get in too early I agreed. I was 2-3cm. Even though I’d only changed slightly since my appointment that afternoon I didn’t get disheartened, I just focussed on the fact that I’d have a baby soon.

The contractions were ramping up and even though we had been snacking on a fruit and nut mix, we hadn't had dinner and were both getting hungry. This is where the experience between an OB at a private hospital and midwife at a Birth Centre really deviate because you are encouraged to eat and drink to keep your energy levels up at the Centre.

So we did what anyone would do in our position. Ordered a pizza.

Just after 9:30pm the Centre door bell rang and Map Guy headed to the foyer to greet the much amused pizza delivery dude. I could hear the midwives laughing again – it was such a great atmosphere having everyone so relaxed.

Pizza. Not the only thing delivered that night.

We downed a supreme pizza (no anchovies, no pineapple) between the two of us with me stopping chewing every few minutes to have a contraction that by now were getting strong enough that I had to stop and focus my energy inwards to get through them.

The midwives would come and go to check on Bobbin and I, and each time we’d chat and laugh. In between they would leave us alone to share this special time. There was no fear, no anxiety, just love, trust and support. Map Guy was massaging my shoulders and my legs and we were listening to everything from instrumental classics to Regina Spektor to Michael Buble.

By 10:45pm the contractions were nice and strong. I was having to rock and sway on the ball to get through them. I couldn’t talk and would make little grunty, humming noises until it passed. They only hurt in one spot though. With Tricky, my entire abdomen felt the pressure, this time though it was just a small band above my pubic bone. I started to feel like I was about to revisit the pizza so we pulled the bin close to me and called for a heat pack to help with the pain.

Mid contraction with the glam bin next to me (with pizza box) ready to spew in to

Caroline came in and took one look at me, looked at the bin, watched me have a contraction and said it was time for me to get in the bath. I wasn’t sure. Surely the pain only being low down in one spot meant that not too much was happening, right? But the idea of the water, well, I couldn’t resist.

The birth pool at the centre is amazing. They left the room dark and the only light source was the one light under the water. Almost as soon as I hit the water, I hit transition. The contractions got stronger and I was making more of the grunty noises again and I couldn’t open my eyes. I was rocking and swirling my hips in the water and directing the jet of hot water on to my belly. I dropped a few swear words, too. Then suddenly I realized that the contractions were rolling on top of each other and for the first time I recognized a sensation from Tricky’s birth… that continuous contraction I had just moments before he was born. This was it. It was so exciting.

Hitting transition in the giant birth pool

I rocked and swayed on my knees, listening to the words of support coming from Map Guy, Caroline, and the others. They were saying the most empowering, encouraging words. Telling me I was strong. I was capable. That I was ready to have my little girl.

The pressure was increasing but I tried hard not to push yet. I wanted my body to do most of the work by itself. Finally I felt that she was right there and that it was time for me to help her. I beared down and reaching my hand under the water, felt the top of her head. I pushed her in to my hand in an attempt to stop her coming so fast. Despite the fact that everyone could see, I announced it to them all that her head was out.

I looked down and watched her rotate slightly and saw her shoulders slither past. I reached down and put my hands under her arms, and with one last gentle push she was born and I lifted her up on to my chest. I couldn’t believe it. I looked up at Map Guy who was grinning from ear to ear. “I did it. I did it. I caught her.” I had delivered my own baby. It was exhilarating.

Ecstatic and a bit exhausted

Caroline stepped forward to see Bobbin and help hold her. “And that, girls, is how it’s done” she said. From waters breaking to birth had been four and a half hours.

We stayed in the pool, skin to skin and still connected by her cord, for an hour or so and in that time she had her first feed. When it was time to get out her cord was clamped and Map Guy did the honours of cutting it, just like he did with Tricky. He lifted Bobbin from me and snuggled her for the first time, his face an image of pure joy.

The hours on the ball had completely knackered my injured hips and I couldn’t move very well. Getting out of the bath was a form of torture and the midwives had to physically lift my legs for me. I can honestly say that at that point my hips hurt more than birth. By far.

After one and a half hours there was still no sign of the placenta and even though I felt amazing emotionally, my body was exhausted and my hips so sore that I just wanted to get in bed and go to sleep, so I took up the offer of the oxytocin injection. The bugger still didn’t want to come out but eventually did, though a small portion was retained. We kept it and had it encapsulated so I could eat it over the coming months.

We spent the next hour snuggling, taking photos and breastfeeding. Map Guy and I climbed in to the big queen sized bed and settled down to sleep with Bobbin in a crib beside us.

The next day Tricky came to the Centre and we introduced him to his little sister. He was shy at first, but warmed up remarkably when we mentioned that Bobbin had a present for him – a gorgeous crocheted race car driver specially commissioned from Daisy, Roo and Two. Even now two weeks on he is hesitant to hold her, afraid he'll drop her, but doesn't stop giving her kisses and cuddles. He loves to play with her hands and have her grasp his finger - we told him in the lead up to the birth that because they can't speak, that is how babies show someone they love them.

We were all packed up and ready to go by early the next morning but had to wait around for the paediatrician sign off, so spent the time lazing around, eating a giant lunch and staring at our little girl. Early afternoon we were home snuggled up together enjoying our first day of being a family of four.

It’s been an amazing and very tiring two weeks. I’m so grateful for the outstanding care I received from my midwives at the Family Birth Centre. We came so close to not being able to birth there (due to a low lying placenta) so to get pretty much the exact birth I had dreamed of makes me feel truly blessed.

Thank you to everyone who sent us congratulatory tweets and Facebook messages. I will print them all out and put them in her birth book to show her one day just how well she was welcomed in to the world.

It already feels like she has been here forever; I’ve almost forgotten what it was like without her here, so fully does she fit in around these parts. But it has only been two weeks. And now, I have to get back to staring at this baby. 

A bump to remember: a preggo photoshoot

A few weeks back, at 37 weeks pregnant, I decided I wanted to have a maternity photoshoot. Nothing quite like deciding at the last minute, right? Considering I was actually "full term" I was super lucky that the photographer recommended to me by a friend was happy to squeeze me in within a few days of my "DO YOU HAVE ANY SPOTS LEFT I'M JUST ABOUT TO POP" email.

OH! If only we knew then what we know now. Hello 40+6 and still a-cookin'.

The photographer, Michelle at Dainty Stills, asked what type of shoot I would like.

"Nothing too cutesie. I don't want to be holding booties. Nothing too butch though, either. I don't want to be holding a rifle or anything." So basically my brief to her was nothing that could land me on the pages of awkwardfamilyphotos.com. Something plain and simple. 

I just wanted a record of what I looked like pregnant because I don't plan on being up the duff ever again.  But if that record could have nice lighting and a backdrop that doesn't include my wardrobe or the edge of a toilet seat like my selfies do, then that would be tops. 

Aunty Penny was meant to bring her white shirt for me to wear but she forgot. I told her not to worry about it, that I had one of Map Guy's and I would just do my best to rock the whole mens shirt look instead. But that wasn't good enough for Aunty Penny so she dropped in to the shops on the way there and bought me a shirt! We pretended she was my stylist and I was the model which of course meant we left the tags on and returned the shirt after the shoot. I think that means I'm going to fashion hell.

I spent half the time pushing my belly forward to look rounder because it was morning and my bump was one of those small in the morning, massive in the afternoon ones. My core muscles and posture would give out by around lunch time and all of a sudden I'd look a hell of a lot more pregnant than I did a few hours earlier. I certainly don't have to do that now. Now it is just ALL BELLEH, ALL THE TIME. With a waddle to match. Like a big ol' pregnant duck. Quack.

Note the pristine white shirt, worn for 4 minutes then returned.

Tricks was being entertained by Aunty Penny and refused to be part of the shoot. The closest he got was playing cars in the same room, but the second Michelle would turn the camera toward him, he would go shy and run off. To the point where he decided he'd like to play in Michelle's bathroom. As you do.

Despite Michelle being awesome with him and really used to working with kids, no amount of sweet talking was working. He was having a shy day and didn't want anything to do with it.

"You can bring the truck with you. I'm sure a truck would look OK in the photo." -No.

"You can sit on Mum's lap." -No.

"You don't have to smile. You could just give Mum a cuddle." -No.

"You don't have to even look at the camera. Maybe just give Bobbin a kiss?" -No.

I decided to pull out the big guns.

"I'll take you to McDonald's after for a burger!" -Still no. Shit. We resigned ourselves to the fact that this would be a solo photoshoot.

It wasn't until right at the end, after Michelle had put down the camera (of course!) that he ran in, without any warning, and started kissing my belly. Frantically Michelle is lunging for the camera, I'm trying to get him to do it again, Aunty Penny is calling out encouragement, saying what a good boy he is, and he is moving around constantly like a fart in a bottle while Michelle is snapping away hoping for the best.

I am so, so pleased that we got a few that were usable. And I even really like that I'm cracking up laughing in the one on the right - where it kinda looks like I won't let him go because, err, I wouldn't let him go. True to form, after about thirty seconds he ran off and refused to come back. Then started asking for his burger.

I feel incredibly vain for having these done but at the same time I know I would regret it if I didn't do it. I'm couldn't be happier with how they turned out. Proper photos of me and my almost two kids.

Next stop, our first family of four shoot... when Bobbin finally decides to arrive!

Did you get maternity photos taken?

And then I nearly got run over. By my own car.

I'd like you to picture this as you read it. Try really hard. It makes it so much better if you remember the convex nature of my belly.

The other day I was trying to enrol Tricky in kindy for next year (wait, what? He can't be old enough for that yet?) but the school we wanted him to go to, because he's been attending the pre-kindy program there since the beginning of the year, let us know via a lovely "too bad, so sad, ask again next year" letter that they didn't have a spot for him. Damn you, catchment areas. I shake my fist at you.

Being a waddling 40+1 weeks pregnant I thought I better get off my ass and find somewhere else before Bobbin arrives and takes up so much of my days that I only remember to call the school after everyone has left for the day.

I got all the way to the school and got Tricks out of the car before realizing I'd left his birth certificate at home. I didn't think a blog post saying when he had been born would count and I wanted it done yesterday so I clipped the boy back in and headed home again. Confused the kid a bit but no big deal.

There is a reason I'm telling you this boring back story. I need you to realize just how poorly my synapses are firing right now. Let's continue.

At home I got out of the car and decided that since I was only going to be two seconds (his birth certificate was just inside the front door in the don't-forget-to-take-this-spot) that I'd leave Tricky in the car in the driveway. I turned the car off and took the keys with me, blipping them to lock the doors as I stepped away.

In my post-dates preggo brain I forgot to put the handbrake on. And to put it in park. Clever, huh?

I got to the front of the passenger side, a whole six steps away, when the car started to roll backwards towards the road. Shit. With Tricky strapped in the back. FUCK.

I ran. As everybody knows, running is a skill I do not normally possess. But I ran. Do you know how quickly cars can roll? Bloody quick. It was going faster than I usually back out of the driveway.

I fumbled the keys out my pocket as the car gained momentum, desperately trying to unlock the door. The locks popped up and I swung the door open.

Now I was running backwards. The car was picking up speed and was forcing me back faster than I could go. I couldn't keep up and I kept slipping, grazing the tops of my feet on the concrete and banging against the open door as I stumbled. 2.1 tonnes of steel pushing me relentlessly.

If I fell, the car would have run over my arm and shoulder. Because of the angle I was at, maybe my head. Though brain activity wise, I'm not sure if anyone would have noticed the difference.

But all I could think about was how scared Tricky would be if the car smashed in to the car and house across the street.

I lunged my feet toward the peddle and missed, twisting my leg around in the hip socket (the hip that had been giving me grief but was getting so much better in the last few weeks). Another two blind backsteps being pushed by the weight of the car and I lunged again. I hit the brake peddle enough to jolt the car and wipe some of the momentum off just as it was heading up the driveway across the street, heading for the neighbour's car and house.

I jumped in and slammed my foot on the brake. We stopped. In the neighbours driveway. A metre or so away from their car. We hadn't hit anything. If a car had been coming up the street I don't know what would have happened. The whole thing had taken less than ten seconds. 

My body was shaking and I turned to Tricks who looked wide eyed in his car seat, "Are you OK?!". His lip quivered slightly then he said "I was only a little bit scared".

Tears pricked at my eyes, "Mum was too, mate. But we're OK now."

"I could give you a hug if you want, Mum?"

Yep. That started the tears.

Thanks to this adventure I have had a mean limp for two days, a couple of gnarly purple bruises on my arms and legs (a massive one on my ego), some grazes on my feet and one broken fingernail. Could have been worse.

Bet I'll never, ever, ever leave it off again. Ever. 

Ever left the handbrake off? Felt as much of a dick as I do right now?

Five Minute Fudge

Just when you didn't think fudge could get any easier than taking five minutes to make, I'm going to tell you it is two ingredient fudge. Commence drooling now.

This fudge comes firmly under the "I was being really healthy and then all of a sudden OMG GIVE ME FUDGE I'M PREGNANT" category. It is in no way healthy and should not be consumed in a single sitting (as I would quite like to do right now) lest you lapse in to a diabetic coma.

I don't eat too much sugar these days so any more than one piece of this gives me a major headache. But when you're the size of a house, ready to pop and so over being pregnant, well, part of me thinks that headache is worth it. I know, a health advocate I will never be.

Ingredients:

• 1 x 395g can of condensed milk
• 2 x blocks of chocolate (between 180-200g per block is fine)
• Anything you want to add to it to make it pretty or yummy

Method:

• Grease and line a lamington tray - you absolutely have to do this first
• Break up the chocolate and melt it using a double boiler - or a microwave if you just can't be bothered
• Add the condensed milk and stir quickly until well combined - it will be thick and start setting immediately so use a strong spoon 
• If you're adding any extras, do it now, lickety split
• Quickly pour the fudge in to your tray and spread it out evenly - if you've been quick enough the clock should be ticking over to five minutes right now
• Chuck it in the fridge for about two hours
• Do something to take your mind off the delicious melty fudge that is teasing you
• When chilled, cut in to squares and try not to eat it all

I used white chocolate this time but it works just as well with milk or dark. Mini M&Ms make awesome extras but so do any small candy type things and nuts, especially macadamias. If you're feeling fancy reserve a small bit of the fudge, tint it another colour and swirl it over the top - if you want supermum status then tint some white fudge green and add some peppermint essence and drizzle it over milk/dark chocolate fudge. Mmmmmmmm choc minty fabulousness!

You know you're full term when...

Yes, I am still pregnant, thanks for asking.

No, it's not the longest gestation ever, and you implying that it is really starting to get on my nerves. It lost it's comedic charm about two weeks of sleepless nights ago.

The person who has asked me the most is, I believe, rather surprising. My Dad.

"Any movement at the station?" he says. Every. Fucking. Day.

Err, considering you're the one who is going to be looking after Tricky, you're the first person who is going to know when said movement occurs, trust me!

But rather than just whinge all day (whoops, too late), I've decided to just write down a list of ways you know you're full term. And for the uninitiated, full term is anywhere between 37 and 42 weeks. A massive 5 week window of "any time in here" with the official due date smack bang in the middle. Which, for a control freak who hates surprises, is really annoying.

So you know you're full term when:

• You are getting so little sleep that you're sure you'll get more with a newborn
• You pee at least five times a night, and during the day you need to go every seven and a half minutes
• On the way back from the toilet you seriously consider turning back and going again already, just to save time
• Rolling over in bed requires a system of levers and pulleys
• You can tell people how pregnant you are not just by week and day, but by countdown to your due date... in nanoseconds
• You spend half your dedicated online time researching how effective nipple stimulation is as an induction technique
• You comment on each of your husband's lovingly prepared dinners with "It's nice, but you could have put more chili in it..."
• Bouncing on a fit ball is your natural state
• The only thing you drink is raspberry leaf tea
• One Born Every Minute is on repeat on your TV
• Rubbing clary sage massage oil in to your belly and whispering "Come on, baby" becomes common place
• With every twinge you stop and wonder if this is it
• You need to restock your birth bag because you ate all the mini Mars Bars already
• You use every single piece of mapping software ever developed to compare routes to the Birth Centre at different times of day
• You feel like slapping everyone who asks if you've had the baby yet

How did you know you're "full term"?

Preparing for birth

Recently on The Daily Edition the delightful trio of Woogs, Beth and Kerrie were talking about how some mamas to be are heading out for spray tans so that they look good in those first post-birth pics. Woogs has written before about what real post-birth photos look like and yours truly was in the post and a few of the pics from it, including the one of moi and 5 minute old Tricks were displayed on national television during the segment.

Yup, my non-photoshopped pic featuring lashings of side boob is now famous:

But the whole thing got me thinking about what I'm doing, and more to the point what I'm not doing, to prepare for Bobbin's arrival.

My pre-birth preparations have consisted of the following:

• Buying black "lounge pants" that I can wear both as PJs and as pants so that when I have visitors come over so I don't actually have to get dressed. They're only a half a step up from trackie dacks but it is a very important half step
• Finding the disposable underwear Georgia bought me so I don't have to wash knickers (you know what kind of friend buys you disposable undies? The BEST kind!)
• Choosing between large and jumbo knickers for when the disposables run out
• Figuring out how many mini mars bars I can fit in my birth bag
• Getting my hair dyed red - yep, totally vain. Though in my defense I have not had it done in nearly four months and probably won't get a chance to do it for another four months
• Buying an adorable crocheted toy for Tricky "from Bobbin" from Daisy Roo and Two
• And the semi-important things like weekly prenatal yoga, clinical pregnancy pilates, raspberry leaf tea, organizing to eat my own placenta, meditation and visualization stuff etc. You know, the slightly-crunchy stuff that I'm all in to

What I haven't done:

• Got a spray tan - if I look pale and exhausted after giving birth it is highly likely due to the fact that I JUST GAVE BIRTH
• Got a bikini wax - I do my own waxing and I can't see down there anymore to do it so I'm embracing the natural look. I refuse to "tidy up" for a midwife who has seen it all before a few thousand times
• Had a facial - this one kinda doesn't count because I'm desperate for a microdermabrasion facial because I have ALL TEH PIMPLES and my T zone is congestion city
• Removed the clothes airer full of socks and undies from Bobbin's room (note to self: get on to this, pronto)
• Finished packing my bag - I'll only be away from home overnight so I've just thrown the afore mentioned lounge pants and disposable undies in a bag... I really should get around to adding some nappies and the camera or those post-birth photos won't even exist! But I've got no idea what else to take!

I'm sure I will look appropriately knackered and overjoyed in those first photos, probably with hair hastily tied back in a bun and a sweaty brow like I did in the last lot. And that's OK.

Plus what are Instagram filters for?

Help me! What should I put in my bag for one night? Anything you wished you'd taken with you and forgot or vice versa?

My hips don't lie. They don't work, either.

You know the film clip for Shakira's My Hips Don't Lie? The one where it looks like her hips are disembodied and have a life of their own? Well, I'm currently imitating that video clip with every step.

Now I don't look anywhere near as attractive as Shakira (plus I don't have some weird undead mummy-boy standing in the background to make me look more youthful and... alive?) and I can only put it down to the fact that I don't have rhinestones stuck to my back and that my movements are involuntary. And painful. But other than our marked physical differences, our hips move in the exact same way.

I'm suffering yet again from Pelvic Girdle Pain with a side dish of Pubic Symphysis Pain. Because the world obviously doesn't think I say Girdle and Pubic enough. I could call it PGP and PSP but I just think of mining companies and gaming consoles when I hear that. And my hips aren't a gaming console... well *ahem* not when they hurt this much.

I had it last time around and even had my ass taped to prevent my hips rotating. This time I knew the first warning signs it was happening (it was inevitable with my super stretchy ligaments - my body does not do pregnancy well at all) so sought treatment really early. Early treatment means I can still walk most of the time, hurrah!

This time, rather than having adhesive strapped to my backside, I'm relying on weekly physio, yoga and pregnancy Pilates plus a super tight belly belt that manages to make my baby bump look like a giant muffin top the way it suddenly juts out over the top. But for the mild relief the brace brings, I will be muffin-y with pride. Besides, muffins are delicious, right?

And did I mention the part time crutches? OH a preggo on crutches is quite the sight, let me tell you! If you thought people moved out of your way when you were pregnant, you should see the enormously wide berth they give you when your growing bump comes hobbling along with support sticks and a face that says "if I stop I may never start again". Shop assistants come out of nowhere to help you out of their stores lest you be stuck in them and actually give birth next to the sales rack. I can't blame them, amniotic fluid is a bitch to get out of carpet. So far I've only needed them a few times though. Phew.

People tell me not to wish this pregnancy away and I'm not. I'm just wishing it speed. Light speed.

Did pregnancy screw with your body?

So this whole birth thing is starting to freak me out

As I move closer and closer to the business end of pregnancy (related: um, how did we get this far this fast?!) I'm becoming a tad anxious about the birthing bit.

I'm not afraid of the actual physical part of birth - billions of women have done this before me (including me once before) and I take comfort from that. I'm not scared of the pain - I've felt it before and whilst I'm not eager to experience those sensations I know they are there for a reason and can be overcome. Plus I get a cute squishy baby at the end.

What I'm actually worried about is giving birth to said squishy cute thing in the car on the side of the freeway. 

When Tricky was born I had a syntocinon drip for a little while (despite letting the medical team know that I didn't want one - but that is a whole other story). I was only on it about ten minutes before Tricky became distressed. It was withdrawn for a few hours and then put back on later at a reduced rate then removed yet again about twenty minutes later because it huuurt.

After it was removed there was some faffing around then I was checked and found to be at 4cm. Then we changed up a gear. To light speed. In the next ten minutes I progressed to 10cm and he was crowning. In case you're wondering, yes that hurts like a mofo. Just under 20 minutes later he was born.

I live half an hour away from the Birth Centre and "everyone" tells me that this labour will be faster. I even have a giant red sticker on my file for "precipitous labour" (aka shoots 'em out quick). 10 minutes of super dilating and 20 minutes of figuring out what was happening and doctors being paged and then pushing a couple times adds up to thirty minutes. Fark.

"Everyone" also says stay home until you're in established labour but I went from bugger all to established to oh look a baby so quickly that staying home until that happens isn't really an option. Perhaps I should have a stack of towels on standby for an unplanned homebirth? Even if I planned a homebirth, if it goes that quick again, unless my midwife lived next door it would be unassisted.

The other thing that scares me, just as much, ironically, is that this time around might be much, much longer and the whole time I'll be thinking "this should be over by now, get me a fucking epidural!!". I'll go to the Birth Centre at the first twinges only to be there for two days with bugger all happening and no one happy for me to leave (including me) because of how quick things progressed last time.

And there is absolutely bugger all I can do about it. I just have to trust my body and keep a towel handy. And boiled water. And nail scissors. Or whatever it is. For a control freak with a body that often falls apart, it is proving to be a bit hard. The meditation CDs are out, the yoga is being done and the calming vibes are being summoned. Um, what else?

Were your births fast or slow?

Namaste? Try Namastink!

Image Credit CC: Lyn Tally

Picture it, if you will, a small mood-lit room. The smell of incense wafts through, its calming tendrils wrapping around each of the women as they stroke their ever-growing baby bumps.

Their long limbs, gently stretched for the past hour, now lie still, beginning the meditation.

It is then that I feel it. Deep down.

It isn't the inner peace that I've been searching for. There is no enlightenment, no nirvana, no spiritual awakening.

I try my hardest to refocus on my breath. In and out. In and out.

But it is no use. There is no meditative state for me tonight. The relaxation achieved from the past hour is now gone, replaced by a mounting anxiety.

It continues to stir inside. The feeling grows...

Oh my gawd. This is going to happen and there is not a damn thing I can do about it.

It happens.

I let rip in to the silence of the yoga room.

The smell is thankfully masked my the feet of the woman in front of me. But her feet didn't just loudly herald their arrival so I'm not sure which is worse.

My saving grace is that I am in the back row and other than the women on either side of me no one would really be able to tell whose bottom trumpeted. Unless they turned around and noticed I was now the same colour as the beet red bolsters, of course.

The meditation is over and while the other women slowly rise from their unpronounceable yoga positions, I leap up, grab my keys and high tail it out of there to the safety of my car. Where I find the relaxation that was alluding me. Of course meaning I fart again.

Fuck, pregnancy is so glamorous.

Tell me where you've loudly bum trumpeted. Go on, it will make me feel better.

How did you find out you were pregnant?

Hello, Bobbin!

I knew I was pregnant with Bobbin straight away. I'm talking a matter of days.

My sense of smell increased dramatically, I was tender and just felt... different somehow.

Bobbin was planned so, quite romantically, I knew dates and times of everything happening in my body so it was possible these changes were the very first signs. I even emailed a girlfriend and let her know that I suspected but that it was too early to check.

I waited what seemed like forever and took one of those fancy pants early pregnancy tests only for it to come up as negative. OF COURSE, I thought. I'm so looking forward to being pregnant again, I've actually just managed to convince myself I am. The changes are ALL IN YOUR HEAD, you bizarre, overly-clucky woman! Go cuddle a squishy baby and get it out of your system for another month.

I was disappointed so I tried my hardest to put it to the back of my mind, distracting myself with internet memes and what not.

A few weeks later I was laying in bed, almost about to fall asleep and realized the date. I whipped out my phone to confirm it - because my brain is such a sieve I require and app to tell me when my period is due. It was two days late!

Now we all know I'm not the best sleeper in the world, but do you know how hard it is to fall asleep when you're grinning like a fool because you're damn sure you're pregnant, your husband is asleep beside you and you can't pee on a stick until morning?! It is nigh on impossible, I'm telling you!

And that is how I found out Bobbin was in the 'hood.

I'm a sucker for any form of pregnancy story. Probably because I still think it is a little bizarre that two cells can join and bam, nine months later there is a baby. This week I have managed to hear some amazing stories and I neeeeeed MOAR!!

So tell me, how did you know you were pregnant? Did you suspect early or were you a candidate for "I didn't know I was pregnant!"?

I had SEX!

Quite the revelation to begin with, no?

The thing is, whenever I've told anyone I'm pregnant I feel like all I'm actually doing is declaring that I had sex. This made it particularly awkward when I told my parents. And MapGuy's parents. Last time I put it off for weeks. This time I copped out and got Tricky to tell them. I know, I'm weak. Getting a two year old to do my dirty work.

See the thing is, not only do I feel like I'm telling people I've had sex, but I think, just for a split second, they get a horrible visual of it.

How utterly ridiculous right? Why on earth would I think that? Well, um, because when someone tells me they're pregnant... I kinda automatically think that way of them. There, I admitted it. Am quite obviously a giant sex obsessed pervert.

Here is how my interprets relatively common pregnancy related phrases:

"I'm pregnant" = "I had sex... see?"

"I'm due in August" = "I had sex in early November"

"Yes, I have one son already, he's almost three" = "I had sex almost three years and nine months ago"

"Yes I know the sex of the baby" = "OMG I just said sex"

At DPCON I sat with the lovely Cassie from The Flying Drunken Monkey. It was the preggos putting on a united front and encouraging each other just in case soft cheeses were presented (she popped out the adorable Chloe about a week ago). At one point we were talking to Beth from BabyMac and I blurted out my conundrum. Which was met by both of them shouting "I'VE HAD SEX! SHE'S HAD SEX!". Which was, of course, completely ignored in a room full of bloggers who quite often randomly shout strange things.

I've never been backwards about being forwards with sexuality. I don't find it dirty or shameful. Get a couple glasses of wine in to me and I'll happily talk for hours about it. Yet the moment pregnancy is on the cards - the whole reason sex exists - I get uncomfortable with the idea of people knowing. Because if a preggo belly isn't a billboard for sex I don't know what is.

In the time honoured tradition of blogging about things that make me squirm, here I am shouting it from the rooftops. I HAD SEX. And all of a sudden I feel the need to go to confession.

Did you feel weird telling your parents you were up the duff?

To sleep, perchance to... fuck it, just sleep will be fine

CC: Stevie.Gill

I've never been a good sleeper. Insomnia has been a rather constant and unwelcome bedfellow of mine. It has plagued me since my teenage years and until relatively recently I was getting about five hours of interrupted sleep a night. Interrupted because a certain toddler likes calling out then crawling in to our bed for cuddles then kicking me in the back until 6am when "Mum you wanna play cars?" is whispered in to my ear.

I do love his early morning enthusiasm, but I would love it a whole lot more after 8am.

For the past two weeks I've only been getting, on average, two to three hours sleep a night. No sleep makes Glow go something something, get out old typewriters, sit in giant unoccupied hotels talking to ghosts and write crappy blog posts.

The problem is that my brain will just not switch off. It takes hours for me to wind down and any minor disturbance like a dog barking, Tricky crying out mid-dream, a thump or kick from Bobbin, or my teeny tiny pregnant woman bladder making itself known and the whole process starts again from the beginning meaning some nights I don't actually end up falling asleep at all before it is time to get up and start the day. Those days are chock full of iParenting and Vegemite sandwiches.

It has gotten so bad that last week I fell asleep at the wheel momentarily on the way home from Pilates and a few nights later, as I lay in bed attempting to meditate, I started hallucinating. The whole room was filled with flashing white, red and orange lights as if hundreds of cars were passing by... on our dead end street that gets zero traffic. Well, either I was hallucinating or I was having my very own Close Encounters experience. Insert iconic five note melody and Richard Dreyfuss reference here. Actually, come to think of it, my mash potato did look kinda like a mountain last night...

I can't concentrate, my mood is slipping fast, the anxiety has come galloping in and I'm quick(er) to snap. All in all, I'm bloody fabulous to be around right now. Add the bags under the eyes and constant wide mouth yawning and I'm totally hot, too.

I've got appointments with my midwives and GP coming up this week and next but until then I'm running out of ideas that don't involve being smacked in the head with a bat (apparently concussion and sleep aren't the same thing. Who knew?!). I'm starting to worry because what the hell am I meant to do once I give birth? I have visions of falling asleep breastfeeding and crushing Bobbin with my massive boobs - the though of which, surprise surprise, KEEPS ME AWAKE AT NIGHT! 

So tell me, are you a fellow insomniac? Got a miracle cure for me? Or should I expect the little green men to be making more regular appearances in my boudoir from now on?

Know your personal space. Hint: My belly is not in it

I'm done. I am well and truly over it. If one more person who I don't know or barely know grabs my pregnant belly I will not be held responsible for my actions.

Throughout the entire pregnancy with Tricks I could count on one hand the number of times strangers or half-acquaintances fondled my bump. But with Bobbin? Something has changed and it seems I am Buddha and every second bloody person thinks it is OK to grab the guts of a chick they've never met just because there happens to be a baby in there.

Now when I say grab the guts, I actually mean just that. In the mornings I'm still relatively small and sitting down it still just looks like a flab roll. There is no rock hard basketball yet, it is a squishy lard covering that they're fondling.

I get it, I really do. They're excited. That's lovely. But can you be excited in your own personal space and not mine please? I'd rather be touched by your pleasantries than your hands.

Classy much?

Last week a man I've met a handful of times grabbed my lardy belly with both hands and jiggled it from side to side. My first reaction, to say "Wooohooooo, look at that blubber fly!" ala Homer Simpson, was quickly replaced by my urge to slap him upside the head. With a chair.

Instead I just did one of those pathetic half smiles and backed away looking uncomfortable because I didn't want to be rude. Because me saying "I feel uncomfortable when you invade my personal space" is of course way more rude than fondling someone's stomach. Ahem.

I don't have a problem with my friends touching my belly. You know, people who actually know my name and where I live; people who have in the past hugged me, touched my arm or some such. I don't pull away from physical touch (like I used to) and going to Blogging conferences turned me in to a damn hugger, but if I don't know you the rules are completely different. After all, you can't spell stranger without STRANGE!

If you don't know my name or have never had any reason to have physical contact with me before then here's a tip: LEAVE MY BELLY ALONE.

Next time, I'm just going to do it back to them. If it is a man, I'm going to grab his testicles and jiggle them side to side. And no, it won't be an enjoyable jiggle, I can assure you.

Are you for or against the random belly touch?

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?

So it turns out even a second pregnancy freaks me out

I may attempt to come across as all earth-mothery what with the hippy lah lah bullshit I spout from time to time, but I am anything but a serene and sacred vessel.

In short, I think pregnancy is the absolute weirdest thing ever. Some cells come together and then GROW A HUMAN? What the actual fuck?! No way?! It's insides somehow know to end up where they belong? Get outta town!

You would think that having done it before I'd be quite used to it, but no. When I was pregnant with Tricks I felt this way too. I feel it whenever I see a growing baby bump... after thinking "hehe someone got lucky" and waggling my eyebrows because on the inside I'm actually a 13 year old boy. Related: this is why I always feel weird telling someone I'm pregnant, it feels like I'm saying "heyyyy, guess who had sex?".

Over the past few weeks I've been able to feel this tiny human move and it is both exciting and disconcerting at the same time. There is a reason I refer to pregnancy as being in the John Hurt Way after all.

I barely felt Tricky move because I had an anterior placenta but I have felt this as yet still blog-nameless baby doing a highland jig on my bladder since around 14 weeks. This is only adding to my complete surety it is going burst out of my stomach at any moment and crawl along the bench to attack Sigourney Weaver or anyone else who happens to be near by.

Don't get me started on how bizarre the birth process is. I'm a full believer that our bodies know what to do and I'm planning on trusting those instincts again since it served me quite well last time around. It's a bit of a marvel and blah blah blah... but I can't help but think IT COMES OUT WHERE?! HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?!?!?! And it's quite obvious that Tricky feels the same:

Does anyone else get the same mental image as a snake dislocating it's jaw to eat a wallaby? No? Just me? Right. As you were.

Pregnancy, Pain and Pilates

This is a C2 post

For full details see my disclosure policy

Exercise and I do not mix. Unless you count walking on a completely flat surface at a leisurely pace, my body does not like to move and I end up in so much pain that I can't get out of bed for a few days. The only vigorous activity you will see me doing is dancing with much help from alcohol and shed load of pain killers to numb me to my eyeballs. Because sometimes even I need to let my hair down. Healthy, huh?

I've struggled with chronic pain since I was little. I was shipped around to all sorts of doctors and specialists, my favourite of which said it was all in my head and I need a psychiatrist immediately. To which I replied, of COURSE I need a fucking psychiatrist, but that is actually a separate matter to the whole can't move my legs thing. The two are related (I get sore, it's depressing, duh) but they are not mutually exclusive.

So for donkey's years I've been through all sorts of treatments including major opioids, mindfulness training, orthotics, you name it, and nothing has helped. Well, OK, the drugs definitely helped, but they screwed with me a lot and I quite like the ability to digest food so I had to stop taking them. I had given up. This was just how I was.

Then Jacqui Gilmour from Queens Road Physiotherapy offered me a rehabilitative physio pilates session. Other than it being a mouthful I thought "well it can't hurt to try" and then laughed my ass off because yes, yes it can hurt to try if you're me. But I went along anyway.

Jacqui offers pilates for chronic pain, lower back pain and the like, but also specifically for women's health: think pilates for pelvic floor, pregnancy, incontinence, prolapse and all those fabulous things that sometimes come after carrying a watermelon in your uterus for nine months. 

 

She watched me walk, asked me a few questions, prodded me (gently) then proceeded to tell me where I hurt... and WHY. How many bloody years have I been asking these questions and in a matter of minutes she had answered them.

Turns out I don't activate my muscles correctly - I use the wrong ones to do certain movements so they're having a serious marathon workout every time I take a step and other muscles just aren't working and are wasting away, getting weaker and weaker (meaning the other muscles have to do even more work to make up for it). It's a vicious cycle... but it can be corrected.

I got on "The Reformer" and after singing Reformer to the tune of Informer a few times I started figuring out how to use the muscles that don't want to move... and... I DIDN'T DIE!! Although I nearly wet myself laughing when Jacqui kept telling me to "Spread your butt! Relax it! Relaxed bum!" - so maybe I should see her for some pelvic floor work too. 
 

I left feeling elated and then promptly burst in to tears. Could this be the answer that has eluded me for over half of my life? Could this lead to a reduction in pain? And if so, why the fuck hadn't any of these specialists over the years told me to do it? They just repeated their stock standard response of "try water aerobics" despite me letting them know that anything in water hurts twice as much. There was only one way to find out: keep going back.

I've been back weekly for sessions (that I pay for) and do a lot of "homework" on a giant rolling pin thing and what looks suspiciously like a dog toy (I'm assured they're actually pilates equipment) and I have had LESS PAIN! HALLE-FREKAIN'-LUJAH!

Because I have private health cover that pays for some of it, the sessions are costing me less than $30. I will keep going back in the hope that the pain reduction continues and that it stops my hip separating like it did when I was preggers with Tricky so I don't have to have my ass taped again.

Have you tried pilates for an injury or pain condition? Did you cry like me?