A New Journal and Pen = A Post

Nothing like a shiny new journal and pen to get a bit of writing inspiration happening. That, and yet another appearance of a tiresome neighbour. I have to leave him to chat to the housemates, you see, because I’m “very busy”. Liam’s not so bad, really, but he does tend to make himself at home with remarkable ease; he doesn’t even bother to knock anymore. He just walks right on in. Helps himself to whatever you’re eating. And seems to have a remarkable ability to turn up at the most inopportune moments. Hardly hanging offences, but at times....

...which segues nicely into something I heard on the radio first thing this morning. Apparently the Merkin army has been finding it a little tough to keep up the supply of bods to hurl at Iraq, and so have decided to lower the standards required to join up. They are now accepting people with a criminal history. Not so exceptional, thinks I, to welcome folks with, say, a minor drug conviction or one for petty theft. In my experience, it would help them settle into the military environment just that little bit better. As the espresso trickled into my cup the story continued, and a few of the allowable offences were read out. They include—and I wish I’d heard this after my coffee--”making a terrorist threat, murder, and raping a child. Consider my gob well and truly smacked. So, anyone serving there may have to place their trust in someone who’s thrust their erect penis into the body of a screaming or drugged six-year-old. And the Iraqi people have to accept such people in their country, and armed. Sounds like a great idea. And this is the government and campaign that our own dear PM won’t hear a word against. I really shouldn’t listen to AM over breakfast.

Anyway, enough of that. Betty and Bob are doing fine, and I’m not doing too badly either. Betty beats Bob on the basis of baby busyness; but my, that Betty is a boisterous bub. At New Year she was head down. Then she shuffled around sideways to lie transverse. During the latest scan a week or two ago she was breech, which brought about a conversation with the doctor involving the C word. “Caesarean” in this instance. Now, after some more shuffling and thrashing about, she’s transverse again. Have I mentioned how uncomfortable all of this lively poppin’ ‘n’ breakin’ is? Imagine if you can being kicked in the (permanently full) bladder from the inside. Now the bowel. Now imagine someone gouging you in the stomach so vigorously that you’re in danger of losing your last snack, and then throw in the sensation of drinking a half a cup of caustic soda. I couldn’t have imagined these things before I’d experienced them, so perhaps they’re lost on you, too.

Strangely though, I’m really enjoying feeling them move around. Bob is tucked away behind his athletic sister, so I don’t know him quite as well. Betty, on the other hand, has become quite familiar. At times I can feel her limbs quite clearly when I press my hands on my belly, and her movements are visible when I’m sitting. Sometimes they catch my eye when I’m reading. If I rest things on my belly—which is a natural thing to do given that it’s now like having a permanent table in front of me—she belts them off. A plate of toast went abruptly flying recently. When, pre-pregnancy, I’d tried to envisage what it would be like to have another little person inside you I’d imagine it being creepy and alien, like having a tapeworm from hell. Or something. But not a bit of it! They’re comforting, agreeable company. I never tire of feeling them jostle about, and become vaguely impatient when I rest my hands on my great ball-belly and find it all quiet.

I wish my Mum were here to share this with. She succumbed to that most trendy of ailments, breast cancer, in October. I’m incredibly grateful that I had the opportunity to tell her that I was pregnant; in fact, it was the last lucid conversation I had with her. She’d always teased Little Sister and I that we were prime candidates for twins, given that most of her family tends to spit them out in pairs. We didn’t learn that we had a double-yolker until the week after her funeral. She would have gotten a real kick out of that. And there’s so many things I want to ask her about when she carried me, about my birth, what it was like caring for a new baby at the age of 22... so many things. In some ways I feel closer to her now than ever before. I miss her terribly. But her death was swift, and can we really ask for more for the people we love?

This is all pretty stream-of-consciousness, eh? I don’t have the energy for anything more disciplined. Creating people takes a lot of creative energy. The only other thing I want to say tonight is that the second baby of the great wave arrived recently: Dorothy Clare aka The Hoffling. She came gently and quickly, and brought a great peace and happiness with her into the family. The Hoffs are among my favourite people, and deserve every good thing. Brendan’s pot roast is due in a couple of weeks—and let’s all hope it takes its looks from its Mama--but I’m not sure who will be next to come after that. Maybe Betty and Bob, or maybe the baby of Anna, sister-of-The-Hoff. Or Matt the Tatt’s brat could beat us both. Then there’s Shayne and Danni’s third little brown lizard to factor in. The bets are on!

(You know, if we all pooled our Baby Bonus money we could buy a great block of land.)