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

Tag: vadge

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 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?

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

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.