I turned 30 at the start of last month, which was a fun milestone to pass. I’d always looked forward to both my 27th and 30th birthdays; it’s strange now that they’re both over. At first I was thinking about celebrating the big day by inviting a bunch of loved ones to our place for a partay, but as the date drew near I realised that the best birthday present I could give myself was to NOT have to plan for a bunch of loved ones to come over. Instead, Alan and I dropped Moses off with his grandparents and whizzed into the city for a night on our own. It was my favourite birthday ever. I decided to NOT take a photo of us smiling over our (very yummy) meals, but couldn’t help pulling out the phone to take a picture of this sign (Alan reckons everyone’s over this joke. I thought it was hilarious [although that may just be the hormones]):
|We'll get you, Bill Posters!|
So I’m 30 now, and one step closer to my ultimate dream of becoming Maggie Beer.
In more recent news, I’m currently gestating a huge and very active baby girl. The kickiness is wonderful – not only has being pummelled from the inside kept me occupied throughout some long waits and otherwise-boring situations lately, it’s also a precious reminder that I’M PREGNANT! It still amazes me. I sometimes glimpse my silhouette or reflection and think, “Hey! I didn’t think I’d ever look like this again!” It’s pretty cool. The hugeness, on the other hand, does not excite me quite so much. The friendly guy at the fruit shop looked at my belly and declared, “Not long to go now!” His face fell when I told him that four months kinda was long. There are women who look this big JUST BEFORE THEY GIVE BIRTH. There are women who are so tiny THEY DON’T EVEN REALISE THEY’RE PREGNANT UNTIL THEY GO INTO LABOUR (I watched far too many episodes of I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant on Foxtel at my brother’s place over Christmas). I am not one of those women.
Apart from strangers preparing themselves to catch a baby every time I waddle by, the problem with the hugeness is that it’s HEAVY. I would give anything to detach this belly and carry it on my back for a while, in a little pack. Or pass it over to my husband for a bit. It’s exhausting. And there’s a lot of growing yet to be done inside (I’m blaming the bigness of the bub here, because it’s easier than admitting I have extraordinarily lazy stomach muscles). I’ve been going through longish phases of feeling wonderful, followed by a week or so of feeling constantly hungry and tired and HEAVY. Last week I was practically bouncing around, and am pretty sure I managed some glowing; this week I just want food and sleep and things to sit/lie/lean on. (I realise only now I should have written this post a few days ago, while I was still on a high; sorry about that.)
Whines aside, I’ve discovered as a result of my heaviness that I really enjoy swimming! I go to a 25-metre heated pool not far from our place which is frequented mostly by old people who walk laps and swim so slowly you’re not sure if they’ve died between strokes. I feel very much at home there. I’ve bought myself a swimming cap and some goggles and some too-big maternity swimmers that sag at the bottom when I get out of the water (garage sale, $2). I go each Tuesday, and I look forward to the 45-or-so minutes of weightlessness the water provides.
I go on Tuesdays because Mo’s started Family Day Care with a beautiful carer called Kerry. At first he was signed up with a carer closer to our place, but after meeting Kerry I realised that my fears about him starting with the other woman weren’t purely because I was a snob (her program included dancing to Hi-5 and she said things like, “Play with them toys, love!”) or not yet ready to leave my child with a stranger, but just that we hadn’t met The One. Kerry’s The One. She bakes bread with the kids each morning (which they eat together with/for lunch), they plant vegies, they share their morning tea and they play dress ups. Moses blows distracted kisses to me as I leave and cries when I come to pick him up because he wants to stay forever. There was a point last year where I despaired of his ever leaving my side; I’m enjoying his new independence (it arrived some time in January). In other Mo news, he’s now sleeping in a big bed, wearing underpants and saying things like, “Thank you, Mummy! You’re a good helper!” and (talking about me and him) “We’re best friends like Gaspard and Lisa!” He’s such a little boy now! What do babies need again? I’ve completely forgotten.
As for Alan, he’s shaved his head again, which means that a) he looks more like the guy I married and b) our next airport trip will almost certainly involve a bomb test. He celebrated a birthday last week, and we all cooked a choc-chip and apricot cake that turned out to be extremely good*. He’s also started coming up with name suggestions for the baby, which is both surprising and scary. When I was pregnant with Moses the best he ever offered was ‘Harvey Norman’ (followed by “Heh heh heh!”), and the joke went on for so long that we ended up quite liking the name Harvey (it’s Mo’s middle name). This time he’s offering valid name ideas, very seriously. I like none of them. I’m freaking out.
And that’s pretty much us at the moment. Hopefully this stint of writing has broken my stint of not-writing, and I’ll be back again soon with something more interesting. We’ll see...
I’ll leave you with two videos that very nearly made me pee my pants, as a congratulations for making it this far (apologies to my Facebook friends, who may have seen these before):
* I’m sorry, this is going a bit far, isn’t it? I’m reminded of one of the sketches from The Sketch Show: “There’s boring and then there’s boring, but that’s just taking the piss.”