Full as a Goog

After seeing a recent pregnant photo of yours truly, a friend of mine declared that I was:

As Full as a Goog.

Slightly taken aback I asked her what language she was speaking.

Australian as it turns out:

Phrase: full as a goog - (Australian, simile, colloquial): having eaten too much, or being drunk


Given that was several weeks ago, I wonder what she would make of me now?  Coming up to forty weeks pregnant I have surely transcended full googness and now reside in the State of Bureaugrade.

As in Violet Bureaugarde.


You know - the one in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory who blew up into a big, purple blimp!

Spot the Pregnant Lady, I mean Violet.

In the likely event that I go past my due date, I wonder what I will resemble past forty weeks?

Nah. Too happy. I will not be skipping anywhere at forty one weeks.

Yep. That's more like it.

March for the Alternative

I want to attend this march in central London on the weekend. I'm not happy about the slash and burn cuts being imposed by the government. Health, education, child welfare, heck- any welfare, human rights, immigration and diversity, arts and culture, literacy, legal and housing aid are all under threat.  And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

However there's a few logistical problems in my way. My husband. And the fact that I'm nine months pregnant.

Power to the Bumps!

My husband has threatened to get a court order to sanction me if I go to the march. He said he'll have me declared Not in Fit Mind under the Mental Health Act.

Do you not care about the kind of society we are bringing our kid into? I asked

I care more about you not being kettled in by the police or thrashed by a baton. I want the kid to make it here in one piece was the terse reply.

Fair enough.

So I'll watch it on TV instead although the media will no doubt focus on the idiot minority who turn a peacfeul protest into a violent farce. They won't focus on the 20,000 other people who have turned out to express their discontent.

Years ago when I was active in the environment movement, an oft quoted phrase in much of the campaign literature was that of anthropologist, Margaret Mead who said;

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.

She also said


Never depend upon institutions or government to solve any problem. All social movements are founded by, guided by, motivated and seen through by the passion of individuals.

Governments will come and go but Mead's words will stand the test of time.

Enter the Dragon

Where oh where did those nine months go?

Enjoy the time chirruped all my (wise) mum friends, It won't come again.

And as I find myself perched on the precipice of labour, I couldn't agree with them more.

Why is it that we pregnant-for-the-first-time-women spend nine months fretting and worrying and busying ourselves with a million and one inconsequentials only to find that as we stare into the pit face of the unknown (a.k.a giving birth at any point now), we are none the wiser and wide-eyed as ever. The armour of information and stuff that you've accumulated over the past nine months is precisely that. Armour. It may help you but it won't do the work for you.

I have no control of what is about to happen. A thought that is petrifying and thrilling at the same time.

Looking back, I can now say that I have enjoyed my pregnancy. Despite the discomfort of symptoms, the hormonal madness and sometimes difficult life changes, I have enjoyed observing what's been happening to me; both physically and emotionally. 

I appreciate though that it is only the very beginning of something. Something enormous and fantastical. And by that I don't mean Dragon's head.

What I mean, is Dragon's heart.

I'm soon to meet my baby.

Oh boy.

Movie-a-Go-Go!

Somewhere along the line in my pregnancy I read that you should go and see as many movies as possible before the baby comes. That those quiet soujourns in a darkened cinema would become a distant memory for some years to come.

Being a movie junkie at heart, I didn't need any further convincing and have spent many a blissful afternoon since in celluloid escapism.

Some of the flicks that I have seen include Black Swan, The Social Network, The Kings Speech, Morning Glory, Blue Valentine, Little Fockers and Another Year. Of the lot, The Social Network won it hands down for me. I love geeks. I always thought they would inherit the earth.

Maybe all this movie watching will make me one of these?

Before Dragon arrives, I'd also like to squeeze in Biutiful, Barney's Version, How Do You Know, Somewhere, True Grit, Rabbit Hole and Fair Game.

I'm topping up for the year to come. Can you blame me?

Childcare :The Buck Starts Here

About two months ago over dinner some friends suggested that we start thinking about childcare options for our unborn, unnamed baby. 

Freaked out on the way home, I said to the Husband:

But s/he's not even born yet!

He just shook his head and replied:

Homeschooling.

Dragon still isn't born but over the past few weeks I've started checking out some of the local nurseries in my area.  Up against the coalface of future parenting reality, I either have to ditch my university course which I'm loathe to do or locate some childcare options quicksmart for when I return to study. Quick being the operative word as places go fast. Even for an unborn child.

Are they sitting quietly because they've been drugged?

 The thing is that everytime I've been to see one of these nurseries, something in me breaks a little. It doesn't matter how nice the staff seem nor how happy the kids look. Whether the meals are organic or if the fees are expensive rather than exorbitant. I feel a little sad each time.

Will I be able to leave my child at one of these places? Maybe when the time comes I'll welcome the break?

I don't know.

It's a small taste of the heartbreak a parent goes through. And I don't even have my stripes yet.

The Pain of Pregnancy Brain

It's real.

The curse of pregnancy brain.

What was I saying?

What was I thinking?

Huh?

The worse was the day when someone asked me how to spell my husband's surname and I didn't know.

I wonder if it is not so much a temporary absent-mindedness but rather a short circuiting due to information overload. Once you become pregnant, there is so much additional information to take in.  

I found this pregnancy survey on another blog and decided to replicate it here.

How did you find out you were pregnant?  By taking five cheap home pregnancy tests that I had bought on the internet
What kind of Pregnancy test did you take?  Don't know. It was only a fiver for fifty on the internet.
What were your 1st symptoms?  Sore boobs. 
Who did you tell first?  My husband. Then my masseuse.
Who was with you when you found out? Le Husband.
My 1st reaction:  Bemusement. 
Was your baby planned?  Yep
When was the baby conceived? I can't say.
How far were you when you found out?  Five weeks
How did your parents react?  Happily

My baby
Due Date:  March 21, 2011
Do you know the sex?  Yes
Any names: Yes
Any Ultrasounds?  Four so far, one more to go.
Have you heard the heart beat?  Yes and it's a great sound
Who do you think it will look like?  Judging by the ultrasounds, it has its father's massive head (OW!)
Will the baby have siblings? Your guess is as good as mine
Have you felt the baby move?  Absolutely

Miscellaneous
Did you have morning sickness? Only all day nausea
Did you have any cravings?  Orange juice, apple juice, bland carbs and cold cooked ham.
Did you have any mood swings? Is that a trick question
Are you a high risk pregnancy?  Nope.
Any complications?  Nope.
Formula or Breastfeeding? Whatever works
Have you bought anything for the baby yet? Yes
When did you start to show? About 5 months
How long could you wear your regular clothes? Still can although jeans need a belly belt
Will you keep the baby’s clothes? Only a few special pieces
Home or Hospital?  Hospital. 
Natural or Medicated birth? Whatever works
Who will be in the delivery room with you?  My partner in crime
Do you think you will need a C-section? Who knows
Will you let anyone video tape the birth?  No way Jose
Are you excited? Yes 
Who will help you with the baby after the birth?  My husband and our army of invisible staff. And then my mum.
What is your favorite thing about being pregnant?  The bump, the happy hormones, the loving support from friends and family and the baby grooving away in my belly
What is the worst thing about being pregnant? Everything else
What’s one thing you miss doing since being pregnant?  Running.
Any days you wish you were not pregnant?  Yes
Are you ready for a baby?  Yes
Have you had your baby shower yet?  Not yet
Do you like kids?  Depends on the kid.  
How far along are you now?  28 weeks and counting…

You Lookin' At Me?

So I was at the gym last night and again, I was the only pregnant person there. It's getting pretty dull being in the sweating minority. The Husband reckons he has seen other pregnant woman work out there but they have all eluded me during the past eight months. I'm not suprised I don't see any of them because my gym is not pregnancy friendly. It is anti pregnancy. For the record, I am a member of Nuffield Health.

Where are you all?

It's getting dull being the lone child incubator huffing and puffing amongst the sleek and lycra clad.  People stare. They pretend not to stare but they do. I see their staring reflections in the mirror. I can see what they are thinking:

What's she doing here?
Is that safe?
Shouldn't she be resting?
That's so vain to be worried about your weight when you're pregnant.
Wow! A pregnant person! At the gym!
How far along is she?
Will I be able to do that when I'm pregnant?

And so on.

I do wish there were more pregnant women working out with me. Mainly because being the object of curiosity makes me belligerent. I come over all Travis Bickle-like:

You lookin' at me? You lookin' at me?! Then who the hell else are you lookin' at? I'm the only one here!

I'm thinking of getting a t-shirt printed up to wear when I next workout.

If you keep staring long enough my waters will break


or


It's not what you think. I was just born this way

Music Soothes the Savage Beast

For my uni lectures this week I had to read several interviews about the work of Raimund Hoghe. Hoghe is not your standard dancer. He has severe curvature of the spine, a.k.a - a hunchback. In one interview he was asked if he follows a physical training regimen in order to be able to perform. He replied:

No. The music gives me the power. With music I can do things I can’t do by myself

Raimund Hoghe at work

This stuck in my mind. It's true. Music does have that power.

Which is why I have started to ponder my music playlist for labour. Whilst I am in the throes of giving birth, I need music that will carry me through it.

Of course I may not want music when the time comes but prefer the sound of my own screams ricocheting off the hospital walls. Nonetheless, I best be prepared.

The only thing I have to compare birthing to is training for a marathon. When I trained for the marathon, I needed a mantra, music and motivation. The music that got me through and gave me that extra push was metal. The wailing of the lead guitar plus the grunt factor of the bass overlaid with the guttural screams of the singer and manic drum bashing blend nicely to aurally simulate the agony and ecstacy of running a marathon.

And perhaps birth too? Whaddya think?

Will our kid come out looking like this?

So that's whats on my playlist so far. Metallica, AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden and some home grown Perth talent, Karnivool.  With a bit of Apocalyptica for the quieter moments.

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

There is a new book out about parenting called Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother which has been causing all sorts of controversy. The book is by Yale law professor, Amy Chua and is a memoir of the Chinese parenting methods she used to raise her two daughters.

The book caught my eye as I'm a by product of two Chinese parents. Fortunately for me, they did not go to the extremes of Ms Chua although there is much I can relate to in her methods from my own  upbringing. Motivation through criticism. An expectation of strength rather than fragility. Strict, tough love.

Although I have not read the memoir, it seems that it is being hyped up and sensationalised in order for it to sell. Although Chua stands by her outlook, the book goes on reveal how her younger daughter's eventual  rebellion against Chua's techniques led to an re-evaluation of her parenting style. 

I read the below excerpt from the Guardian aloud to the Husband:

"Amy Chua was in a restaurant, celebrating her birthday with  her husband and daughters, Sophia, seven and Lulu, four.  "Lulu handed me her surprise which turned out to be a card," writes Chua. "More accurately it was a piece of paper folded crookedly in half, with a big happy face on the front. Inside, 'Happy Birthday Mummy! Love, Lulu was scrawled in crayon.  I gave this card back to Lulu. "I don't want this," I said. 'I want a better one - one that you'be put some thought and effort into. I have a special box where I keep all my cards from you and Sophia, and this one can't go in there.' 
What kind of mother throws her four year old daughter's home made birthday cards back at them? A "Chinese" one, that's who, says Chua.

The Husband looked aghast whilst I laughed merrily.

There is no way you are going to do that to our child, he huffed.

Poor little half Chinese baby. Of course I wouldn't do that to you.

Well maybe only the Chinese half.

My Mother Wears Combat Boots

Today I discovered the existence of this book:

I want to read it immediately.

At an estimate, I've read about 70-80 books on the subject of motherhood, pregnancy, birth et al. I started about 5 years ago when a close friend in Australia had her first baby. I wanted to try and get an insight into what she was experiencing.  I ransacked my local library and Oxfam; hoovering up information much the same way a catfish hoovers an aquarium.

Since becoming pregnant myself, I've gorged again on the written word. But much of what I've read is so bland. I feels as if these books are addressing mothers as a faceless, homogenous group. I find that they don't really acknowledge the Person behind the Pregnancy or Parenting and are very Prescriptive.

A few books however have stood out for me. Ones that made me laugh, made me think or seared images into my brain indelibly. Making Babies by Anne Enright which has the best description I've come across as to how it feels to be pregnant. Rebecca Walker's Baby Love; Emma Tom's Attack of the Fifty Foot Hormones; Minus Nine to One by Jools Oliver, Life After Birth by Kate Figes and the one whose title or author I can't remember but whose description of tearing during her vaginal birth and subsequent experience of a fistula made me keep my legs shut for several years. I appreciated her brutal honesty even though it made me wince.

What's apparent is that pregnancy memoirs are more my thing than the Week One, Week Two, Week Three variety.  These have their place and are useful but I prefer people's stories. Even though we humans have been pro-creating forever, it's still a unique experience everytime. Memoirs remind us of this.

That's why I like them.

That's What Friends Are For

Amongst the million and one weird things you experience in pregnancy, the most reaffirming and disappointing are the reactions you have from your friends.

Announcing your pregnancy is a strange enterprise. How are you supposed to do it? Lambast everyone you know in one fell swoop? Let the news trickle of its own accord through the grapevine? Tell only close friends and family and let everyone else guess? Or do what my husband did which was to send out the concise email to his friends :

Lavendar's preggers.

I'm six months pregnant now so the news that a little Lavendar is on her way is well and truly out there. But what I wasn't prepared for is once you get the news out, you have people's reactions to contend with.

Most people, even if they couldn't give a shit, still have the courtesy to say, Congratulations, I'm happy for you.

Some people are stupendously happy and excited for you, basking you in a glow of  warm love and concern. They ask you how you are. They don't forget that you're still a person underneath the sumo suit. They put aside their own agendas about birth or children and just wish you happiness in your new adventure. I won't forget their kindness. They get the expensive christmas cards this year.

Then there are the rare few who really don't give a shit and send you this message loud and clear. Thankfully I have only had two of these.

One friend decided that I had wronged her so much that she screamed down the phone at me, showering me with invective so twisted and angry that her words landed like physical blows to my belly.  Pausing for breath to mutter, I know you're pregnant, BUT... she continued to vent her wrath over my wrongdoings because, of course, it's all about her.  I hope she felt better after that. Did I kill her mother? No. But I thought I might  have given the tirade.

The other extreme was the friend who once finding out I was pregnant has just ignored me despite my efforts. Blanked me completely. Maybe she got pregnancy confused with leprosy.

What's the saying? With friends like these.....

Big life transitions always are good for shaking up the firmament of your relationships. You see where the real bonds lie as opposed to where you were just having a polite conversation or acting as a free therapist.

Well sayonara to all that rubbish. I'm middle aged now. Life is increasingly, too short. 

Rhythm is a Dancer

Last night I had the following conversation with a woman in the change rooms at the gym:

Woman in Leopard Print G-String: Are you pregnant?

Me in Ultra Stretch Granny Pants : Yes

WILPGS: How many months are you? You're still going to the gym!?

MIUSGP (bristling): Nearly six months. Yes. I still go the the gym.

WILPGS: How do you find it?

MIUSGP: It's good. But you just have to vary some things depending on how you feel.

WILPGS: Good on you. Well done you.

Phew! Cat fight in the gym quickly diverted to sisterhood rulz!

For the record, I did a body jam class. I find dancing in any form really helpful for me during this pregnancy. Belly dance, latin, african. All the styles that make you move your hips. The baby seems to like it as well.




Belly dance is great for pregnancy, and for women in general!


Afterwards I met up with my husband who said:

Husband Who Can't Dance: What class did you do?

Me: Body jam

HWCD: What?! What are you doing that now? Isn't it too vigorous?!

Oh good grief. I can't win.

Still I Rise

The indomitable Maya Angelou put a spring in my step yesterday when I was feeling particularly knackered and fed up with the symptoms of pregnancy:

Still I Rise


You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise
I rise
I rise.

-Maya Angelou




What a woman!



Of Woman Born

When I was just a wee young girl, far from the clutches of puberty, my mother and I had a conversation about marriage and children. When I declared that I wanted neither, she replied:

If you must get married at all, put it off for as long as you can

and

You won't know what it's like to be a woman unless you have children*

I was just ten at the time but even then I retorted:

That's rubbish. Are you saying that women who choose not to have babies or can't have them are not women? If becoming a woman means having views like that, I'll give it a miss thanks.

As I digested the fact that my mother's dream for me was to become a single mother, I felt my anger at her statement grow.

Twenty seven years later, I still get mad when I hear this nonsense spouted at me. Unfortunately it has been said to me far too often. And always by women.

Does this make you a woman?

In the period after I got married (sorry mum), I got the baby question a lot. It drove me crazy. Some people felt it was their right to assess my womanly status in direct correlation to my breeding status. However when I asked these people if they were planning to go back to work or what else they were planning to do apart from childrearing, it was as if I was launching a nuclear attack. Defenses went up. Tangible bristles appeared. How dare I question the sacred fount of Motherhood!

Well don't dish it out if you can't take it I say.

I'm going to become a mother sometime next year. So far my pregnancy has not made me feel any more womanly. It has made me feel pretty gross in fact. I know there are big changes ahead and I know nothing I can do will ever prepare me for them.

But I do know one thing. And that is I will not suddenly become a Woman when the baby is pushed, pulled, yanked, cut, tugged out of me.

It will be another stage of becoming me.


*To be fair, she did tell people to shut up about the kid question after I was married and told me that having kids was definitely not the be all and end all of life and sometimes it was better not to have them. I was somewhat reassured and offended at the same time.

Judgement Call

I like to drink from time to time. I'm not a daily drinker but when I drink, I like a session. I'm not one of these glass of wine at lunch girls. I like to hunker down with good company and work our way through a few bottles. I like to have stimulating conversation and to discuss topics, not people. I like to burst into random song sometimes and if others join me, all so much the better. I like to sit on the floor when I drink. I prefer to drink at night.

I had one such session recently with some work friends. It was one of those lovely, spontaneous sessions where we were all on a level. The company was relaxed, funny, witty and interesting. No-one hogged the conversation. No-one was left out. It was as close to perfect as could be.

Afterwards I wrote on my Facebook status that I had enjoyed a drinking session with my work mates. Why I felt compelled to write it? For the same reason I guess that anyone writes their status on Facbeook. What do I care if Jim is going to bed? Or that Amanda is having a cup of tea? Or that I had a drink with my mates? There's a space for us to type stuff. So we type.

Well someone did care it turns out. One of my friends posted a comment. To quote nonverbatim:

You seem to be drinking far too much these days. Isn't it about time you had a baby?xxxxx

Is it me or is the xxxxx supposed to be ironic? This friend conceived her baby during a lost weekend of cocaine and booze. Surely it has to be ironic.

There are many things I wanted say and ways I wanted to respond. But in the end I just deleted her comment. Comments like that aren't worth bothering with.

There are times when judgement, hypocrisy and ignorance combine to effect comments of great humour and irony.

This was not one of them.

Up The Duff

What is that song with those lines: All my friends are getting married? That’s not quite the case these days but I tell you what is. It’s:

All my friends are having babies….

As a woman, get to your mid thirties and what do you know? All the females around you start getting up the duff. It’s like mushrooms in a field. One minute – just grass and overnight – lo behold – mushrooms everywhere.

The past few months have been spectacular for mushrooming. I’ve had to start writing down due dates in my diary just so I don’t forget to send a baby card at that time rather than an invite to a cocktail party.

This burgeoning state of affairs has led me to reflect on my own un-pregnant state. Suddenly it seems that I am in a minority. My frame of reference has changed. Instead of just being; I am now in the reference category of pregnant or non-pregnant.

As a woman, it’s not a nice thing when this happens to you. One day, you’re trundling along –quite happy with yourself and your place in the world. All of a sudden, you’re head over heels in love with the idea of being pregnant. Quite why this happens – who knows? Is it the biological clock? Or the fact that everyone else is doing it so you want a piece of the action too? The reasons are endless but the idea is there, planted within yourself, even though nothing else is.

This sucks because once the idea has taken hold, you become restless. You are acutely aware that you are not pregnant. Some small part of your innocence has gone to be replaced by a yearning for something you’ve never had.

For the longest time, I never considered kids. I was not a maternal type. Even as people around me started becoming parents, I felt good that I was not. I valued my independence, solitude and freedom far too much. I had committed to marriage but that was as far as it went, so I thought.

Well bollocks to that idea. Something happened because I am now fully pro-baby. Disconcerting though it is to find myself in this space, it’s also reassuring. Even if for the simple reason that I now understand all those magazine stories about women who go to all sorts of measures to get themselves pregnant. I get it. As to how I got here, to this strange new space – who knows?

What I do know is that a few weeks ago, it suddenly seemed that the whole word was pregnant. Everyday I would get news of another baby-in-the-making. I was happy for those involved but felt my axis shift slightly each time towards some un-named abyss. I decided to give myself a reality check. I made a list of all the women I knew that were pregnant and all the women I knew that weren’t. The results were about 50/50.

Seeing it down in black and white gave me some sort of solace that breeders were not taking over the world. But I know that hearing about another pregnancy might tip me over the edge into god-knows-what.

Unless it’s mine of course.

Breeders Beware

So I was in Soho with my friend Blue yesterday when we started to talk about aging.

"I go to the gym and run," he said. "And weights twice a week. I'll never give up eating so I have to do something to keep trim. After all, I want to keep going out. Clubbing and whatnot and I don't want to look a desperado when I do. Some people just look like that they don't belong."

I met Blue ten years ago in Australia when we both worked for a god-awful employment agency which eventually crashed and burned. Back then, Blue was already well on the way to becoming fabulous. As well as always being immaculately turned out in designer suits, he had a budding collection of pieces from Newson to Alessi as well as a house that looked like it had come straight out of the pages of Wallpaper magazine.

We were like chalk and cheese; his Prada to my Primark but we bonded over a love of trying new things.

"We met when we were in our mid 20's and now we're sitting here talking about heading towards our 40's," Blue moaned, glugging his third vodka and cranberry.

"You're talking about turning 40. I ain't. I’m in denial"

Blue ignored me and continued his litany:

"Even in your 30's, you can still look good if you work at it but once you hit your 40's, that's it. The decay and decline really starts to set in. I still want to look decent so I can go out"

Blue is gay and in a settled relationship. He and his boyfriend have all the accoutrements of an established urban couple. Nice car, nice house, nice shoes. As we discussed our thoughts on aging, I noticed some similarities in our priorities. Blue wants to keep healthy and look good so he can continue to function in the gay community. It's important to him that he can go places and not look out of place. He wants to be able to go clubbing in his 40's and not be judged.

I can't remember the last time I stepped into the nightclub. But I get where he is coming from. I dance and I've been doing it for years. Now that I'm in my mid 30's, the bod ain't what it used to be. I have aches and pains that aren't going anywhere. But I want to keep limber, keep moving, keep dancing. I don't want to be the weird 40 year old desperado in the corner of the dance class, re-living her youth. I want to be there because I can keep up and look like I should be there.

But what Blue doesn't have on his horizon is the baby clock. He and his partner don't want kids. I, on the other hand can hear a long delayed biological ticking; although that could be the choir of voices that have been in my ear for the past 3 years:

"When are you going to have a baby?"

But what I can't help thinking is that if there is one thing guaranteed to age you, it's kids. I don't know why people say that kids keep you young. On the inside perhaps. Every person I know that has kids, has aged because of it. You can hear a creaking in them that wasn't there before.

It's a vain question I know. But can you still hold onto your youth whilst producing one?