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

Month: December, 2012

Of pressure and dangly bits…

Excerpt from my new favourite book:

“The joy of knowing there’s a tiny little person being incubated. The elation of feeling the first kick in mommy’s belly. The excitement of knowing that you will be welcoming a new addition to your family in just a couple of weeks. Yeah, that all means squat now.

We’re at 35 weeks in what is billed as a 40-week process and we can’t wrap this thing up quickly enough. Really, doesn’t the baby have someplace else to go? Days are bad. Nights are bad. Early afternoons are bad. Around 9:12 am isn’t too bad, but that passes quickly. Even equipped with enough pillows to fend off an attack from a well-trained fighting foce, my wife can’t get comfortable in bed for more than 20 minutes at a time. She’d sleep on her back, but the Pregnancy Nazis have dictated that such outlandish behaviour will slightly reduce the oxygen supply to the baby’s brain, thereby setting b ack our precious little one’s mental development and dooming the child to a lift stuck on the wait lists of prestigious universities or, perish the thought, enrolled in a state school.

People in my parents’ generation smoked, drank and ate feta cheese with impunity all through their pregnancies and, for the most part, we turned out okay. But now it’s a federal crime if my wife wants to sleep on her back.”

This book was written by a man for expectant fathers and is the first truthful account I could find in a book, at least the first few pages. The pages that follow are a frank account of what fathers can expect and it’s very well written but I think Roger should’ve started earlier in the pregnancy and made it less about poop.

Anyway, onwards and upwards…

Dead centre week 36 and I can’t remember the last time I had a comfortable night’s sleep. This phenom isn’t new. Those of you who are regular readers will know the discomfort has been ongoing throughout. But, fuckaround, the levels have now reached dire proportions. My hips truly do feel dislocated. I cannot simply sweep a leg out to the side to budge the coffee table into position, the Dosey-Doe will not be done in my home for many weeks and bending to pick any of the numerous items that fall with embarrassing frequency from my suddenly clumsy hands up is just not happening. I can’t even pretend to look comfortable, no matter how many pillows I surround myself with, and, as it is the festive season, I’m having huge difficulties understanding why our families (some of whom have been through this before) keep demanding I get up, get dressed, drive places and act cheerful when surrounded by pain-free, mostly drunk, revellers. So over it. Bring on January. Whoop.

A friend of mine rather bluntly, I thought, reminded me that I’m pregnant, not dying, the other day but I can’t be sure of anything, having never done this before. As I reminded her rather kindly I thought, she was in her teens when she was last pregnant and should probably not be telling 30-sumping year old heavily pregnant women anything about their ancient hips and ongoing complaints :-).

The father of my child thinks I’m blowing this out of proportion. Or at least he did until random preggies, upon finding out which stage I’m at, started responding by saying things like “How’re the hips doing?” or “Has the pelvic burn set in yet?” – the answers to which are “I want to die” and “Burn? Burn? If you’re referring to the firey, grinding pit down south, it’s doing fine, thanks”. Motoring along swimmingly.

I’m heavy. I have put on weight and can feel my body being dragged down by a larger gravity pull than it’s ever experienced before (and I’ve fallen down a lot). The “drag” is… well… it’s a massive drag. It feels like effort must be made to lift and put feet down over and over again. I will never be this heavy again.

My vadge is in a constant state of pins and needles and all the Kelloggs High Fibre breakfast cereal in the world hasn’t prepared my rectum for the pressure it’s under at any given point on any given day. Don’t get me wrong, fibre is necessary, especially during pregnancy. Without it I’d probably be a bleeding mess, but when your baby decides it’s head down for the rest of the trip, nothing moves easily anymore.

Oh, and when people use the term dangling like a bunch of grapes, they’re lying. Nothing that horrendous is going on down there. But the itch can go fuck itself. And that’s me being charming about it.

The last fuzzy, fun bit I’d like to talk about today involves what I can only presume will be swollen veins in the head due to heat stroke. I’ve been experiencing the headaches of champions. On Friday, I was *this* close to getting into my car at two in the morning, driving myself to the hospital and demanding a morphine drip to treat the pain I was dead certain was being brought on by the world’s most challenging aneurism in history. Saturday promised to follow suite but, and here’s a tip for other mothers pregnant in the heat of summer, a cold ice pack on the neck and placed strategically on the sinus pressure points for hours at a time, can be helpful in stopping a pregnancy stroke/headache in its tracks.

Apparently, all of this magically, MAGICALLY disappears the minute (the MINUTE!!!!) the kid is out of your body so, effective tomorrow morning, bright and early, the two week count down begins.

On the good news front, the baby is very happily gaining weight. OBGYN says he’s healthy as a little booting horse and is still moving around like a backup dancer on Glee.

I’m looking forward to it being him that keeps me up at nights.



I have fuck all to say…

This week’s update includes the introduction of absolutely gorgeous blotchy patches all over my body – bloody hormones couldn’t even uniformly blotch giving the impression that I’m a tanned, healthy human being as opposed to the cream puff dough girl with bits of off strawberry strewn about I’m coming across as.

I am finding the strangest things sexy – and no, I don’t mean animals or paper clips – I mean people, like Bruno Mars and Sheldon Cooper. This is new. And really unfair. If you’re going to believe all the liars who have gone before me, most fathers to be are blessed and presented regularly with insatiable horndogs during the second and third trimester. I’m not saying our sex life has become a veritable desert, we’ve done okay but, because of all the pictures they put in your head, this became yet another area in which I felt I’d failed miserably. I mean, the last thing I wanted to do most days was spread these hips or muck with the pelvic area.

And yet, here I am, three weeks to go, having a hot flash every time Sheldon squints his eyes.

People are still calling me “mum” or “mommy”, which is WEIRD, people, WEIRD!!!!!!! I am not your mother and it’s creepy when you call me mummy. The only person who I allow to do this is my friend Nadia who makes it sound like a good thing…

People are still telling me to “wait” and that I’ll be “planning number two before number one’s out of diapers”… and I’m still feeling inconsolable urges to hoof them in the general genital area, walk away and never call them again.

The hole at the top of my throat, which doesn’t close at this late stage cos the kid’s pushing your stomach up so high, still spits acid out of my stomach and almost directly into my lungs every night, which is the most pleasant thing to have happened to me since I jammed that rusty nail into my left eye.

Nothing fits. No. Thing! Even my preggy gear pinches. And I refuse to buy more. This stuff is ghastly, unappealing, unflattering and expensive. I will walk into the hospital naked before I buy more of it.

But the best thing that’s happening these days is the count downs… “min dae” say some, “soon soon” say others. Either way, Hudson’s on his way soon.

I just know I’ll be better at this when he’s outside. I just know it.

I just don’t know man…

News headlines. That’s what Justin Bieber’s upcoming concerts are making in SA. I don’t care about Bieber. You like her? Fine. What left me feeling somewhat appalled is how American South Africans seem to have become.

Or rather, how American South African parents are letting their kids become. I’m not sure I want to live on a planet where girls can be photographed sitting in the road crying because they missed out on Bieber tickets.

Are there not bigger things to think about in this country today? Where does the sense of entitlement come from? Is it not a sense of entitlement that leads to tantrums on the street? Am I going to be the world’s worst mother, after all? Will my child be so much of a realist that he borders on pessimistic? Would I prefer that to these brats?

Courtesy a work colleague who may or may not want to be named here.

Courtesy Jared Carneson – comic genius.

In other news, I believe it’ll be a day or two and I won’t have a belly button anymore… it’s looking alien up in der…

*Quick addendum: Before someone states the obvious – I know many African women show emotion wherever they are during times of high grief and that wailing and rending and beating of chests is a very African thing to do. But, to my mind, high grief and Justin Bieber should not feature in the same sentence and certainly shouldn’t be held in the same esteem.

Surreal moments…

So, I dunno, a year ago or so I went through a mushrooms phase and I had a thought this morning…

What if… this is just like the most extended trip in history? What if I’m still sitting in whatshisface’s garden, looking perfectly innocuous to the outside world only not so much – I’m actually stuck in my brain and may never come out the same.

It’s like one of those moments where you think to yourself: What if I actually *did* choke last Wednesday and it wasn’t just a scare? My spirit has refused to leave the earth and so has created this after life which sees me carrying on with normal day to day stuff. Only I’m actually dead without knowing it.

It’s like that only different.

Cos you just never know with drugs…


Shower day… quite literally…

Saturday was the day of the Shower, quite literally in more than one sense. First, it was the date of my first, last and only baby shower and second… it was the day of the rain.

Now, I have to say, props to my peeps for not pulling the famous South African “Ooops, I forgot I’m double booked” or, as we say in the old country, “rain makes me melt and your shindig is just not important enough to risk losing skin” excuse and actually making the trek.

Those of you who said you would and did really rock. And that’s it.

We honestly were so blessed and I hate it when people abuse that word. I’m not one for presents; I’m not one for being the centre of group attention; and the idea, in general, of Saturday happening in my mind was tantamount to asking me to spend the day watching a The Human Centipede marathon. The horror!

But we were blessed indeed. People showing their excitement at your good news really makes you feel like a wanker for complaining about it. Don’t take that the wrong way, this is what I do, nothing’s changing here.

But, for a moment, I felt for myself what I probably should’ve felt for all the other mothers to be at the numerous baby showers I’ve attended throughout my life – a weirdly smug, totally unselfishly happy benevolence…

Looking through the photos of the event the next day, however, left me feeling nothing but ginormous and oddly shaped. I was a tall woman. Now I’m a tall, top heavy, square woman.

I’m like the pregnant Sponge-bob Blobbypants.

And after this baby arrives, I’d better lose 75 kilograms right sharpish or his father is going to leave me for a troupe of midget acrobats.