Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Tellin' it like it is at 30 weeks.

When I was pregnant with patrick, I spent a large amount of time denying to myself that I actually was going to have a baby. It was a defence mechanism against the many losses (4) I had to endure before having ababy that 'stuck'. Totally understandable. By this same stage of pregnancy (30 weeks) I had done very little in the way of baby preparations. I mean, sure, we bought a larger house but that was at least in part because I was sick of trying to study at the dining room table because our terrace was so small. I had previously bought baby clothes during pregnancies 1-4 but had given all of them away in various work-related baby showers, because the grief of that little bag of onesies was too hard to bear. In short, I had given up, and it wasn't really until about week 35 that I actually accepted that I was, really and truly, most likely going to give birth to a real baby. But I still couldn't accept that the baby would live. Thus Patrick's arrival brought with it a huge shock. I had spent so long focussing on being pregnant that I had forgotten about preparing for parenthood.

In many respects this pregnancy couldn't be more different. I have gone smoothly from G5P1 to G6P1 with no losses in between. I have not had so much as a whisker of spotting. From about week 20 I have assured myself that this baby is definitely a going concern. I am forewarned about the miseries of early babyhood and late pregnancy. I know that babies grow up from being useless crying lumps to happy, laughing children. This is what 'normal' people must feel like with their first pregnancies, right?

But I'd be lying if I didn't admit to apprehension. My PND never really went away: I could blame that on the fact that I was still breastfeeding patrick when I fell pregnant with Secundus, so my hormones have never really 'normalised', but it worries me that I still remain medicated. In fact, a few weeks ago I recognised the signs that my mood was in fact worsening, and my dose has been duly upped. Again this could be rationalised because I actually had ante- as well as post- natal depression last pregnancy as well, and that I am already managing it better. But it does worry me that I will again fall into the pit of despair.

I'm also worried about how I will cope with two. Of course, I will cope, one way or another- I'd just like to think that my coping will be positive. I know that Patrick will be majorly upset when he realises that the baby is a permanent fixture, not a one-off, and I'm worried that he will feel less loved. You know how they say little boys are in love with their mothers? These days I'd tend to agree with that: MrT has been working some ugly 14 hour shifts and it was just me and P for the last 4 days and it has to be said, we've had a ball! Most satisfying was the times he'd come up to me and give me a random hug or kiss, just for existing. I'm going to be sad to miss that one on one closeness, now that it's so overt.

I am heartened by the things I see of mothers with two children, though: I see older ones entertaining younger siblings, and it makes me glad. Not that I'm about to leave Patrick in charge of a newborn whilst I scoot down the pub for a bevvy or two (tempting though it may be), but I know that in time, Yttrium will be amused by Patrick, and hopefully, eventually, they will become friends, not rivals.

I am a little concerned by the practicalities of the second child: our car is not the biggest of vehicles, and I'm concerned that a second baby seat will not be practicable. I have yet to do anything about getting a double stroller: part of me just wants to wing it with Paddy in the stroller and Bernoulli in a sling at least for the first few months before I have to do anything else. I'm pretty sure we will eventually go for the Phil and Teds that seems to be the go for all 2 child families these days- pat's a little too little for a scooter board. But then there's this contraption too... hmmm, time to hit the message boards, methinks.

And, will you look at that! In the time-honoured tradition of putting it all out there, I actually now feel better. Thank you internets!

There's only one thing missing:
I have recently been cravng chocolate sundaes. Specifically, sundaes from a fast food joint that may or may not be scottish (Mac -somebodies. Maybe you've heard of it?). I bought some chocolate sauce from the supermarket yesterday to d.i.y at home... BUT MR T HAS EATEN ALL THE ICE CREAM!! GRRRRR! I waited until Patrick was in bed so I could have one without having to share (because really all that means is I get a spoonful or two before Paddy decides it's all his) and MrT is at work so I can't leave the house. I can SEE the freezer section of Coles from my bedroom window. Arrgh! Fate! Why do you mock me so?

I tried to trick myself with some yogurt but, really, yogurt isn't a hot fudge sundae AND our yogurt tasted off.... there's nothing in the kitchen that even remotely looks satisfying. I had thought to ring MrT at work and ask him to bring me home a sundae from that most evil of venues, but I know from bitter experience that the time you finish this shift is also the time they all clean the ice-cream machines, and you can't get a sundae for love nor money without a hellishly long drive. I'll just have to go to bed dreaming of hot fudgy sauce and creamy creamy vanilla ice cream... mmmmmmmmmm. Grrrrrrrrrrr.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

O is for Ossim

I will admit to feeling a little more optimistic about the world now that there is a new US president. And no-one can deny it is a historic moment, and hopefully, a historic presidency, and not for all the wrong reasons.

I look forward to the world being a better place, maybe, if the big O can deliver on the speech. Except for maybe winning against terrorists: I mean, not that I hope they don't, it's just that, well, not many other countries with a terrorism problem ever really triumphs over all their threats, and the US has, well, just so many targets that, well, I just think.... "by 1990 no Australian child will live in poverty". Yah, right.

But did anyone else notice the beast they call "Cadillac One" had its hazard lights on? I mean, just in case you happened to take a wrong turn and hadn't noticed the enormous motorcade and gazillions of personnel you might go "Oh heck, Mabel, I dang nearly hit that swishy automobile- good thing the driver had his hazard lights on and all".

On another note, Paddy just had maybe what was his biggest dinner ever- two veggie sausages, half a plate of steamed broccoli, a heap of mashed potatoes and a bowl of ice cream. I even felt full watching him.

And yesterday, best haircut in a year. Short choppy bob with loads of bright red chunky strips. Sh-weet.

Monday, January 05, 2009

In which I moan about pregnancy

I am loving being pregnant. I really am. I love being all round and full. I love little baby kicks and hiccups. I love patting my tummy. I love it that when I ask P where the baby is he will sometimes point at his own tummy, and sometimes mine.

But there are some things that downright shit me. Remember these?

* Why is it that when you are so full of female hormones, and about as female as you can get, your brain gives up being able to think like a woman? Multitasking is a definite benefit in my job (I'll just nudge that blood pressure whilst I make up this penicillin and maybe change the vent settings around; 'hello lovely nurse, could you just grab me some more remi please?') and I hate having to think linearly, but if I try to do too much it just evaporates. Pouf! Ideas- all gone...

* Tiredness. Crapola. I had to have a nanna nap pretty much every day in the first trimester and that went for 15 weeks, not 13, and it has started again- at 25+5, not 27/28. Holy what-the-hell? Maybe this is why one is so much more fertile in one's twenties.

* Most people have heard of eponymous signs- they just don't know what they are. That's something with someone's name attatched that signifies something in a disease process. For example, McBurney's point is the point of maximum tenderness in appendicits. Murphy's sign is tenderness under the liver when someone with an inflamed gallbladder takes a deep breath in, and Rhomberg's sign is someone who can't balance with their eyes shut. Now, I'd like to claim my own: Jen's Monster Pubes of Late Pregnancy. Seriously. I have the longest pubes ever. I haven't yet beaten my record from Patrick's pregnancy, but there are some humungous ones in there. And they're all straight too, like old lady pubes (Ok, I realise unless you work in healthcare that you may not know this, but old ladies seem to get straight pubes. Something to do with grey hair being thicker, or something. Anyway, there you go. Something to look forward to- not).

* Can't bend, can't squat, can't sit, can't stand, can't lie down without multiple pillows. It's uncomfortable just being alive. At least it's not frankly painful. Yet.

*Sweating like it's a Gold Medal contest. My sweat glands are outstripping any antiperspirant on the market. It's not sooo bad at work (air con) but if I have to dress up in gown and gloves and mask, by cranky do I start fogging up. And pouring with sweat. I literally have to change my scrubs after any procedure because they get so sweaty I get too smelly by the end of the day. Icky.

* Bad taste in clothes. I don't know what has brought this on, but I am turning into a hippie. Maybe it's just the attraction to loose fitting cotton, but I seem to be wearing all earth colours and ... navy blue. Navy blue is the colour my mum wears for Chrissakes! There are days when i am wearing- shock horror- no black at all! And I can't be bothered funking up the hair so it just goes back in a hair wrap. Next thing you know I'll be drinking herbal tea, driving a prius and thinking Peter Garrett has finally lost any shred of credibility (Oh Peter- why didn't you join the Greens instead??!)... oh NO! The rot has set in already!!!!

* My toe nails are looking just feral. Mental health staff reckon you can tell how mentally unwell a person is by the state of their toenails. Neat, trimmed, polished= mentally well; crusty, talon-like, only-cuttable-with-a-chainsaw =mentally ill. I have mental health toenails. Oh and my roots have grown out alarmingly, so I also have mental health hair. That combined with the hippie clothes plus a permanently dazed/ exhausted look must make my patients think they have Loopy Luna looking after them.

But. I really am. Enjoying it. Seriously.