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

Month: November, 2012

The week of the rape mail…

This could be a busy blog post… and for that I apologise but it’s been a long week, starting with…


An undisputable fact is that most of us are products a failed relationships, divorce, one night stands, flings or even rapes, the list is endless.  Most children grow up in a fantasy world, hoping that one day their parents will get back together but when that doesn’t happen, the problem starts. Lifetime scars are created, many questions are unanswered, anger and frustration builds up then the bitterness starts.  

Psychologists have observed that children born out of wedlock are rebellious, emotionally unstable and more often than not they tend to fall in the same trap of having children out of wedlock.  It’s a vicious cycle   

Your are therefore invited to come and have your single parenting questions answered.

What the fuck, guy?

Okay, so here are my questions. First of all… where did you get my information? And how did you know I am unwed? Do you know how pissed I am that your antiquated email has compelled me to use the word “unwed” in a sentence? I feel like a doddery 75 year old.

Why are the children of rape included as part of a list of human choice options and when is that child going to hope his parents get back together? Oh man you have peeved me off…

Oh, and who the great scott fuck do you think you are mailing a random pregnant woman with nightmare stories of how her kid is going to suffer because she’s not married?

I am a child of a single parent home. And I am just fucking fine, thank you very much. Now, remove my email from your mailing list or I will be sure and cause the types of havoc your happily married mother warned you about.

Event number 2 happened yesterday – with our 32 week scan – but was a run on from the videos we watched of natural and C births during ante natal classes a few weekends back.

Me: I thought feelings of impatience are only to be expected from week 36! What the eff, Doc?

Dr B – Gives me his *let me entertain her or she’ll stab me* chuckle. No, really, I do think he likes me. Kinda.

Dr B: So, we’re due on the 21st?

Me: Are we sure about this?

Dr B: You are pushing, aren’t yo…?

Me: Nope.

Dr B: No pushi…?

Me: Nooooope.

Dr B: Okay, so no pushing then?

Me: Uhhhh… that’s a negatory.

RESULT! All going well, and we’ll be expecting our son on the 14th January 2013. He will be a Capricorn. Born on The Day of the Integrator (in case any of you were wondering about the poll). He will be neatly sliced from his mother’s uterus and will go on to live a happy life regardless as to whether his father lives under the same roof as he does or not.

And lastly, look at this! We are stem celling and when I read stories like this I know it’s worth the money and effort. For those of you (and there were quite a surprising number in our ante natal classes who weren’t) not considering it, think again, please.


Go ahead…

Take my poll

I think Hudson and I are reaching an understanding…

He’s going to keep cracking away at my spine and lower intestines and I’m going to wear sneak-a-peek-at-my-vadge skirts and hooker heels to any and all school events going forward. If he doesn’t right himself soon and start kicking my ribs, I’m throwing bright blue eyeliner into the bargain. It’s all up to him now.

Sounds fair.

In other news, my bladder has joined the ranks of my stomach and lungs in being squished to the size of a peanut by my ever expanding inner child.

I was peeing frequently. Now I dribble on the regular.

Further to this, working with a team of miscreants who think nothing of making me laugh myself silly at any given point on any given day, now means all day, every day is a very scary time – urine wise.

What I wouldn’t give for one of those pees that start off with a screaming bladder and end what feels like 30 minutes later with a feeling of blissful relief seldom experienced except in these very instances.

In today’s news, I am pretty much done. I do not know how I’m going to survive the next four weeks. I need this year to be over. Clients are not in agreement. For someone who had always considered maternity leave to be something other people did, I am now quite literally counting down the days. Sure, I think a week or so in, I’m going to be a raging lunatic desperate for adult interaction and conversation, but for now… I can think of nothing more exciting than not having to worry about the mundanity of the end of the year wrap up.

Anybody out there have any tips for making it through December with all your fingernails and hair?

Nadia was right…

He’s cramped. I know he’s going to move at least a few seconds before he manages to pull it off. It’s like he’s yanking his feet free before pushing them against my tummy. It’s just too cute. Poor thing.

My kid is cool, y’all, but he ain’t no ninja.


Sunday was not a good day…

If there’s ever a time in life that you cannot stand back, yank your arms from the slop and shit, rest those very fists against your hips and say “I’ve changed my mind; I’ve had enough and I want out. Let me out!” – it is when you’re pregnant. I realised this on Sunday.

I know… I thought I was quite smart too.

But hey, you can’t just wrench it out and leave it on the side of the road. Once it’s in there, and you’ve decided that’s where it should stay, that’s where it stays. Until it’s ready to come out.

Sjoe. Shit. Fuckadoodle doo.

Sunday felt like I just couldn’t anymore. Like that was enough now. When you come from a life where you never felt your lower intestines before or when a sore spine was usually a result of poor sleeping position and enter a life where you feel bruised and battered – where you’re scared to look at your pelvic area because you envision it has become a blue, purple mashy mess overnight – and only have the tiniest little kid with the most surprisingly strong kicks and punches to blame – things get very strange.

My friend Nadia says he’s pretty fucking grumpy too and that kinda makes sense. He’s running out of space and is probably pretty bloody bored in there. But if he really is running out of space, surely the movement should be limited?

Call me a quitter. Call me a shamelessly bad mother. Call me what you like. I care figs. The only thing I feel is sore and I’m tired of associating this with him. It’s not fair. He’s not to blame.

I can’t say I’m not excited now – the Day of The Excitement Level Hike has arrived! Yes, ma’am. I’m not sure it’s for the right reasons but with 9 weeks left, I’ve never felt more elated. And if I land up needing a C section, all the better – saves me a week or two of this at the end of the day.

Chat soon. Leave comments.

It’s official… I’m a troll…

I’m a sound sleeper. Always have been (aside from a few times in life where small sounds have woken me easily but this generally coincides with big change – moving in with the man of the moment, starting a new job, finding out you’re pregnant – and have been hardly surprising.

So, you’ll understand the shock I felt when, one night last week, I snored myself awake. How loudly do you have to be snoring to wake the dead?

And yes, snoring is bad enough but it hasn’t ended there.

If I relax too much during waking hours I snore whilst I’m awake too.

Nick is basically sleeping on the couch and I don’t blame him and I’m semi sleeping in the bedroom because one warning dollied out by various sites has proven to be true – I’m just too uncomfortable to sleep through these days. I flop from one side of my body to the other, dragging my tummy and its pillow around with me. I wake up in a panic on my back thinking I’ve killed the baby (apparently sleeping on your back is a HUGE no no at this point in the pregnancy) and yet have never felt as much physiological relief as I do when I’m prone, face up, staring at the ceiling.

Yes ma’am… this truly is the most glorious time of a woman’s life.

Two PSs:

PS1: Some of the reactions to last week’s blog and the fact that Sniffy McSnortenson is the SWEETEST person in the land has left me feeling a little guilty. I do love the lady I was referring to in last week’s blog most dearly. I just hate coughing more.

PS2: My colleagues are awesome: following my Vadge being kicked by a Moose post, I came in to work to find this presticked to my desk divider…

Aaaand the whore moans…

Er… yip. It’s happening. Week two of the third trimester and my hormones have kicked in… but properly.

It’s not as bad as they make out on TV and in movies. I’m not roaring from one side of the hormone fence to the other in a matter of seconds. But things that didn’t make me cry before will see me bawling like a baby and I get highly irritated VERY quickly (which is the scariest part).

A girl who sits near me at work is sick again. Sniffing and snotting and snorting and sneezing and coughing… and the girl who sits near her is following suit.

Now, I don’t hear any hands being put in front of mouths during all of this and the rhythmic sniffing makes me want to jump the divider that separate us, knock her to the floor, hold her by the throat and ram Extra-Heavy Flow Tampax up her nostrils.

Naturally, the work place is no place for physical violence (and it definitely is not in my nature to assault people) but it certainly isn’t a fucking hospital either and these freaking people need to make their way home while they’re all infectious and shit.

Understand this, when I brush my teeth and get to my tongue and the gag reflex kicks in, the chances that I’ll pee a little are huge! If I catch your cough, I will be sitting in a puddle of urine… ALL. DAY. LONG.

Please fuck off home.

I’m taking great strain in bottling all of this in. If you were to ask my colleague, she would be none-the-wiser. But it’s gonna blow, Capt’n. And I fear for the safety of those around when it does.

*Deep breath*

Aside from this, my thyroid levels are on the low side of normal. Which explains the heart palpitations, low/high blood pressure feelings and complete fatigue.

Tip: Don’t shoot for babies if you have Grave’s disease.

Aside from that, the boep is now present and accounted for – as you can tell from today’s blog photo. I cannot see my feet whilst standing up nor my vadge while lying down. I can no longer easily shave my legs or trim my toenails. This last 12 weeks is going to be hairy, scary funsies.

However, I find solace in the knowledge that we are on the right side of nearing the finish line with this pregnancy and if I have to go into it with hairy legs and an unsightly patch, so be it.

Chat soon. Leave comments. No judgement here.Image