That pregnant lady is complaining again.

Ah, those final weeks of pregnancy.

For me, it has come to those final days. I don’t think time has ever gone by so. slowly.

Mama’s getting tired.

And cranky.

And just – very – sarcastic. More sarcastic than usual. I know. It’s not pretty.

I’m complaining a lot; to the point that I’m starting to irritate myself with the extent of that complaining. But being the entitled preggo that I am, I’m not going to dwell for too long on how much this is probably irritating those around me. I’m the one with a seemingly giant baby growing in my abdomen (my doctor continues to be astounded at the rate at which this baby is growing), therefore I shall continue to complain. And make those horrendously unattractive grunts when I stoop down to pick something up. And lay on the couch like a beached whale at any given opportunity.

Preggo

 

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What my father taught me about being a mother

So often we, as mothers, think back to how our own mothers have shaped and influenced us as parents. They’re usually the default example to which we revert when we find ourselves in a situation.

In my case, I’ve been fortunate to have one of those dads that was very involved, very supportive, very there, all through my childhood, adolescence, and now adulthood.

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Turns out Mama’s the one not ready for preschool.

December has been a month of big decisions for us. We’ve decided to start sending Tuna to “preschool”.

I say “preschool” because it’s very much “pre” and very little “school”. I mean, let’s be honest, at this age, you’re essentially just putting your kid in an institution where they can finger paint without abandon, run around the world’s most well child-proofed playground, engage in “sensory” play by baking organic wholewheat pizzas and what not, and you don’t have to clean any of it up or break a sweat.

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“Are you eating a lot of carbs?” she bravely asked the pregnant woman.

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This well-meaning query came from my obstetrician at my 32-week check-up about a week and a half ago, upon completing her estimation that I was carrying an {already!} 2.2kg baby.

She’s a lovely lady, and I like her a lot. But girlfriend is not afraid to be blunt. She’s obviously dealt with enough pregnant women in her long and illustrious career such that she is no longer threatened by the potential wrath of a gigantic woman incubating another, apparently gigantic, baby human, who has effectively just been called fat. Continue reading

9 years ago, I met a boy.

22 November 2006. I was 21. I was in a new and exciting country, visiting my sister who had been doing volunteer work for almost a year. She’d convinced me to come along to one of her friends’ farewell barbecue celebration. I was reluctant. Frankly, I wasn’t in the mood for small talk and meeting new people. But I went anyway. Heck, I like my sister’s company and I was only there for a few more days so didn’t want to miss out on precious time together.

We arrived. I did the smiles, the hand shakes, the spiel about what I “did” and how long I was staying; a spiel which I’d perfected due to repeating it so many times, and the “yes, we don’t look alike at all, you’re right!” And repeat.

I have to say, I met a lot of cool people. One of them was a golden-haired, aqua-eyed fella with a sense of humour and impeccable taste in music. Once he started playing the album Things Fall Apart by The Roots, he caught my attention, as did the fact that when we arrived, he was, being the Australian-raised man that he is, expertly putting the proverbial shrimp on the barbie (I think it was actually lamb chops this time, but hey). Continue reading

How to spot a veteran preggers from miles away

Pregnant mothers of more than one: you know how when you get the rare chance to go somewhere sans your offspring outside the womb, you get all those sweet, knowing looks from people who think this is your first pregnancy? I’ve been getting those a lot lately. It’s almost a look of reverence. Of respect. But not without a hint of “oh…sweetie. She has no idea what’s coming!” But we know, sunshine. Boy, do we know.

The sharper belly observers will very quickly realise that this ain’t my first rodeo. Here are five surefire ways to know, without a quiver of doubt in your heart, that this mama has done it before.

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So just because you have kids, you get rights?

I experienced two incidents over the past week which have made me really think about this question.

Gather round, my friends, and let me tell you a little story about an exhausted pregnant woman with an overtired toddler who just wanted to get the hell out of the supermarket.

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You’ve been there, right? You’d rather be doing a billion other unpleasant things than stand there any longer while your kid screams at you for more sushi (which you’ve had the audacity to open before paying), you’re carrying a basket which was only meant to contain a couple of lightweight items but now makes it look like you’re stockpiling for Y2K all over again, and your womb-mate is creating all kinds of crazy havoc up in your pelvic floor muscles.

Get me out of here. Please. 

I frantically scan the checkout aisles for the one that, in my estimation, will end this torture the quickest. Ah! There it is, almost too bright for me to look at directly due to what I perceive as a glow of hope surrounding it. A moderately empty, moving checkout line. I hauled the stroller with its yelling, hungry occupant and my gigantic belly over to that blessed lane as quickly as possible. Continue reading