There's something wrong in the state of Denmark… and I think I may be it.

Month: October, 2012

Discharge and other funsies…

*Cue violins*

When you become a mother… *deep snobby, sigh-y nose breath in*… you may suddenly find your body starting to go through changes… *deep throbby punch to the throat*.

I’ve signed up for free stuff. I figured, I might as well. But there is no such thing as free stuff as we all know and I am now part of quite a few mumsy newsletters. They’re not bad. They offer specials and discounts on baby stuff. Still haven’t found an outlet for snazzy expectant mother clothing but we REALLY can’t have everything in this life, I’m learning.

Anyway, one of these, The Baby Club, is sending me a week by week “what to expect today” diary. It’s awesome fun. This is what your kid is up to, he’s blinking now and reacting to light. It has led to amazing amounts of fun times with dad and his torch.

But I gotta say… I am perturbed at this week’s expected deliverables as far as this pregnancy goes…courtesy of Parent24:

• For you, it may be a period of heartburn, leg cramps, haemorrhoids, itchy skins and indigestion. Don’t despair – exciting times are ahead.

Don’t despair?????? Haemorrhoids? More like the kid’s veiny twin! Or so I fear. I’m never going to be brave enough to hold a mirror down there. And yeah, indigestion, sure. I think I’m eating so little I’m actually losing weight!

• You may find that you pee a little when you sneeze. This is very common during pregnancy. Keep doing your pelvic floor exercises to keep those muscles strong.

I’ve been peeing a little when I sneeze since day dot. I swear I’m starting to smell a bit like someone’s gran and my underwear is never going to recover.

• You may drop things and trip easily. This is normal because of loosening of the joints and water retention.

Feels like the good old days if you ask me. 🙂


One thing I do have to keep an eye out for is discharge. Yummy.

Apparently if enough of this starts happening, we could be looking at pre-term labour.

Awesome. Now I have to be vigilant about discharge too.

Don’t comment. I am judging. All women. For putting up with this for so long. And for calling this a beautiful thing. Humphf.

Just kidding. Comment away. I love all of you.


The ache you don’t expect…

I feel as though I’ve been hoofed quite squarely in the vadge by an irate 7 tonne moose.


In other news… we’re off to the Indaba this weekend. Am not looking forward to hours of walking around with two grannies-to-be and the father of my child but it must be done. Apparently, the specials are awesome (although the “show specials” listed on the site are anything but inspiring).

If the moose damage hasn’t cleared by then (and I doubt it will as it is has been a constant condition of varying levels of ache over the past few months), I’m going to probably demand to be ferried around in a trolley.

And update will follow including any outstandingly interesting shit we find and pictures of me in a trolley. I promise, no photographs of prams.

I love the smell of crying teenager in the afternoon…

So we were in an accident on Saturday.

We’d driven out to visit a friend in somewhere near Strubens Valley (I’m bad with directions and areas) and were on our way home (parked at a green robot waiting to turn) when a young lady in an Opel Corsa plowed into the back of my Golf 6. I was not driving and apart from a few pulled muscles everyone came out of it alive.

A friend of mine, Pippa, who runs a different blog and is experiencing a different pregnancy (due to an accident of this very nature) was probably the first thing that came to mind.

As I type this, I realise, no. That’s untrue. The first thing that came to mind was Hudson, there’s no doubt about that. My mouth was ranting about the bakkie in front of us who, if he’d moved in time, could’ve negated the potential for an accident full stop on his own. But my brain, my hormones, my adrenaline, my heart and yes, both of my hands, were on Hudson.

I was not thinking about the insanely young looking driver who drove into the back of my beautiful, pristine VW who Nick was dead sure I was going to smack around. Nor the equally insane looking drunk hobos who gathered around the accident scene trying to settle the situation by telling anyone who’d listen that “eet will mumble mumble okay, ma’am”. And certainly not the insanely quick-to-the-scene tow truck company who actually ended up saving the day.

It’s amazing how the really important stuff is just that… the really important stuff… when it comes down to it.

But I did think of Pippa and I do now, every day, and I think you might enjoy her journey too. Although it’s not filled with as much vitriole as mine, it’s a journey nonetheless. Good luck, Pips.

I am now a size 8…

I’m not fucking kidding.

My feet have grown a size. His mother is now a gigantic whale-person with enormous gallumpa feet and it’s all his own fault.

Word is that growth in foot size is normal. All my bones have spent the last few months separating and spreading to make room for the foetus and my feet bones are doing the same to accommodate the extra weight I’m carrying around. Frighteningly, word on whether this is going to return to normal after I’ve sprogged or not is split. Some folk believe that your shoe size at the end of the pregnancy is your new shoe size in life while others, bless my mother’s teeny tiny cotton socks, pish this advice in favour of the more appealing: “What rubbish! Everything goes back to normal after you’ve given birth. You’ve just got to be sure and start exercising the minute he’s clawed his way out!”



When is something nice going to happen?

Right now I have size 8 boats… floating mere centimetres above them are disgusting donut-shaped masses of flesh that used to be ankles. Everything kinda looks normal from there until you hit my arse, which is so cushion-y I can’t go into furniture stores anymore for fear of being sat on. The bump is what is it is but the boobs! The boobs were in trouble before they filled out. Now I just want to cry every time I look down at the swinging not-so-funbags because I know my old breasts are just not ever going to come back. I’m going to have to find the money for major surgery someday soon and that’s just not something I’m happy to think about right now. Underneath my gazoombas are lungs that are probably one third their normal size having been squished up against my sternum so climbing stairs are a lovely affair. My crowning glory is a static mess (honestly, no amount of hair calming product is helping) and I’m not even sure why I wash it anymore. All it does is spend every day scraped back in a scrunchie going grey and looking unhappy.

Covering all of this beauty is my heaviest organ to date – my skin – which is NOT YET GLOWING!

Instead, I’m bumpy, lumpy, spotty and shiny.

True, I have no stretch marks or varicose veins and maybe that should be enough (have you googled that shit? Jesus H… it’s not pretty).

I just think women should get more for this.

We are hormonal and periody and grumpy and teary and fucked up and mental and rejected and abandoned and insulted and ignored and treated badly and made to sleep in the frikking wet spot on and off throughout our lives. We can’t take drugs, drink wine or do anything fun for ten lunar months and all our shit falls to pieces while we’re at it.

The irony is, we deserve for this journey to be as beautiful as all those women claim it to be.

I’m waiting universe.

I’m waiting for something nice.

Chat soon. Leave comments. No judgement here.

Fear and loathing…

Part one: Fear

I realise I write this blog in isolation. There aren’t many women out there who feel as I feel. In fact, I’m pretty sure that were this blog read by anyone in particular, and should that “anyone in particular” be brave enough,  I’d be shunned or insulted or trolled to death sooner than one could say “Tasmanian Devil”.

The fact that I’m alone in this only makes the brief stints in nightmare land I am experiencing lately that much more difficult to understand. You never hear women talk about feelings of fear during pregnancy. You never hear people say: I swear to god, I realised he would be here in less than four months and the blood ran to my feet.

Over the last week or so fear has been smacking me around at the oddest moments. I am happily floating in a euphoric cloud (believe me, when you make it out of the first trimester alive, everything is euphoria), he’ll land a swift boot to my tummy and the duvet will raise through his efforts. He’ll move something. Outside of my body will be affected by him. And the whole Fuck Everything And Run adrenalin kicks in. This little thing is real, y’all. And he’s scarier in his current capacity than anything human has ever been to me.

I have 15 weeks of this to go. Do you think I’ll make it?

Part deux: Loathing – Just STOP it already!

“You’ll see, when you have the next one, how easy this one actually was…”

“When number two comes along…”

Give it up folks. It ain’t happening.

And before you give me that knowing bloody look, the one that forces me to scratch red lines into my thighs to avoid punching you, please understand… I beg you.

I do not live in a world where this type of thing is planned. I live in a world where *I* look at *you* funny when you tell me you’ve been trying for months. I live in a world where people who “plan” children are either fully fucking loaded and can buy a school to ensure their child’s education and future or shouldn’t be allowed to sign legal documents on their own behalf.

There’s no middle ground.

Schooling, employment (or rather UN-), the sheer number of little cell people that will be entering the world at the same time as what you think is the most unique spermatozoa to ever squirt onto the face of the earth… it should all be frightening us (every single one of us) to the point where we zip up the old vaginas and stick a staple in the old nut sack.

But it doesn’t. I am the minority, I get that. Most do not see this as the most heavily over-rated adult (dare I say female) experience ever. People plan. They want offspring.

We didn’t. And I’m going to do better at the not planning next time. There will be no number two (unless the number two to which you refer is a giant crap, made possible gloriously without the aid of Kellogs High Fibre Cereal, at the end of this story) so please, for the sake of our friendship/my sanity/your sacred existence… stop.

I’m finally close to being completely happy with one, thank you. And he’s getting everything. The best of me. The best of us. It will not, nay, cannot be shared.

Chat soon! Leave comments! No judgement here. :-)