Fleeced

From the Sunday Snail.

Thousands of Japanese have been fleeced in a scam in which they were sold Australian and British sheep and told they were poodles.

Flocks of sheep were imported to Japan and then sold by a company called Poodles as Pets, marketed as fashionable accessories, available at $1600 each.

That is a snip compared to a real poodle which retails for twice that much in Japan.

The scam was uncovered when Japanese movie star Maiko Kawamaki went on a talk show and wondered why her new pet would not bark or eat dog food.

Then hundreds of other women got in touch with police to say they feared their new "poodle" was also a sheep.

I've since heard that this story is rubbish, based on a misquote or mistranslation. We're pretty quick to assume as true any story that shows the Japanese to be ridiculously eccentric, stupid, or stupidly and eccentrically ridiculous. But what the hell. I think it's a great story anyway. I only wish I'd thought of importing the sheep myself.

Pictures of Little People

...and one large person.

The belly at its peak. The morning of the birth, in fact.

And the results. Edie an hour old.

And Oscar.

Edie chowing down on Oscar's head.

Edie at three weeks.

Oscar, three weeks.

Motherhood

What on earth could possibly have kept me from updating for such a long time? What indeed.

Edie and Oscar arrived as planned on the 17th, and life since then has been a fog of breasts, shitty nappies and milk sick. My life is now focussed on my ability to produce a dairy product, not something I'd ever really considered before.

The little 'uns are healthy and lovely, and Dad and I are learning to be incredibly grateful for sleep in blocks of four hours or more. Edie was born with her eyes open and staring, and continues to take it all in at every opportunity. Oscar came out wailing and with his eyes clenched shut. He's a bit of a delicate flower, sensitive to loud noises and bright lights. Can't blame him, really; I wanted to scream in the surgery, too.

It's nice to (kind of) have my body back. The sheer ease of movement post-belly is a truly wonderful thing. Moving around with a wriggling baby attached to your leaking chest has its own challenges, though. Currently typing this with Oscar on my lap; also a little difficult.

One thing I was not so aware of is how novel people find twins. When we take them out in the pram, something we do every other day, it's rare that we get more than a few metres before someone stops us for interrogation. Are they twins? How old are they? Are they identical? Should you have them out at that age? Do you have twins in your family? The answer to all of these questions is Please just sod off. Please. You're the fourth person to ask me that in the past ten minutes, and you're really trying my patience. I only had three hours sleep last night. Step aside immediately or I may not be responsible for my actions. I know people are trying to be nice. Sometimes. But it's still trying.

Parenthood Eve

This time tomorrow I'll be deflated, drugged, stitched, and a Responsible Adult. Is it too late to change my mind?

Someone asked me this afternoon if I was nervous. I'm something, but I'm not sure if nervous is quite it. I've certainly had that restless pacing around that comes with waiting for anything. Over the past few weeks I've had reflux so bad (wakes me up several times a night) that any cure, even at the point of a scalpel, seems welcome. I'm kind of dazed I suppose. We grow up seeing the whole birth thing as being quite unpredictable in terms of timing, so to know that at about 11am on the 17th we'll be parents is pretty weird. I'm looking forward to meeting the little 'uns.

Lofty, however, is quite anxious at this point. I think it's that situation of seeing someone else go through something difficult and being helpless to do much other than watch. He's a bit of a doer, so knowing that his biggest contribution tomorrow is going to be holding my hand and reassuring me is frustrating for him. I understand that completely, but I think he's underestimating just how important the hand-holding is going to be.

I'm getting a bit sentimental about the belly. I've been living with it and watching it grow for such a long time now that suddenly losing it is making me a little sad, despite how damned cumbersome it is. I've enjoyed rubbing it, feeling it move around... it's got a personality of its own, you know.

I think I'm feeling too reflective to be nervous. It's a big day, this last day of childlessness. At 37, tomorrow I finally have to grow up. *sigh* And so life wanders relentlessly on.

It's a Date

We got the big news yesterday: Betty and Bob are scheduled to enter this world via caesarean at 10.30am on the 17th of April. Less than two weeks away!

And they tell me that there'll be two babies for us to take home at the end of all that. Because that's the thing: despite having months to come to grips with that idea, the layers of disbelief are still falling away, one by one. I'm guessing it won't be until they hand them over that I'll finally say, Holy crap, you mean these are mine? Forever? What the hell are you saying? Being given a date was rather sobering.

So, the knife. Over the past few weeks the two of them have been very acrobatic indeed, resulting in some major jolting and wriggling, and some very bizarre (and painful) belly shapes. Turns out that Bob, previously lying sideways, has now decided that breech is the go after all. And they've completely swapped sides. You wouldn't think that there was room to scratch yourself in there, but they've wriggled and fiddled and somehow made the switch. It explains a lot! But as a first birth, both twins breech is just not considered safe to attempt naturally, so slicey-slice it is.

We landed ourselves a very good doctor at the hospital yesterday who gave an an entire hour of her time to explain everything and answer our questions, and we're both satisfied with her reasoning for both the method and timing of the delivery. The 17th will be 38 weeks 4 days.

So we now have two weeks minus a bit to get unpacked and arranged at this new house, wash all the baby things we've been given, pick up the baby things we're missing, arrange for a dog-sitter for delivery day and after, buy a new fridge (ours died in the move, annoyingly), finish what we both need to do at our respective workplaces, and, and, and.... *phew* We're hoping to be all done by the weekend prior so that we can have one last grown-ups weekend, meaning dinners, movies and so on. That's the plan, anyway.

Belly Update

Perhaps I should change the name of this blog to "Gestational Safari". Or maybe "Cervical Safari" would be better feminista cred. Regardless, a belly update.

Betty and Bob are still in residence in my ever-wearier body. And they're either having a cracking time in there, or anxious to get out, if the bouncing and wriggling is anything to go by. I mentioned their movement last time; now it's even stronger. My regular chair is one of those sprung plywood framed jobs. It moves around with every body shift. Now I can be sitting perfectly still and the squealers' movements will actually set the chair bouncing about noticably. It's quite remarkable.

Once we've finished moving house (more on that later) I'll post a picture of said belly. It's really very impressive. When I see myself in the mirror I find it hard to believe that my body has done what it has. I've put on 30kg during this pregnancy, which takes me up to 98kg, 2kg more than my 6'8" partner. It's a lot for a 5'7" frame to take. No wonder my joints are starting to complain.

Having said all that, things are still going swimmingly, really. I'm tired and riddled with aches but healthy and happy, and as a friend pointed out recently, at least while they're still in there they're quiet and need no attention. Make no mistake, I'm grateful for every day's reprieve I get on that count.

So, the house move. As of Saturday I'll be a resident of The Gap, tucked in the foothills of Mt Coot-tha and Mt Nebo. (Or is that Mt Glorious? I always get them confused.) I've always been a south-sider, so it's a bit of a novelty being so far from the familiar. The house itself... well, it's like your Nana's house, which is good and bad. It does suit our decor, that's for sure. It even comes with a concrete flamingo in the back yard, which will be getting a coat of pink paint very shortly. With southerners swarming in to south-east Queensland like mice into a silo, housing is at a premium right now, so I'm incredibly grateful to have found it at all. We've been searching on and off for months now, and it was starting to seem like a race between finding a place and the babies arriving. Urgh, it's been a stress I could do without. So once we've finished moving in this weekend, and we've unpacked at least all the essential boxes, Betty and Bob can come at their leisure. And at that point we'll be significantly happier.

They're officially due on 3 May, which I find mysterious. That's 40 weeks, but twins are considered full term at 38. Despite this the medicos are clinging to the May date, but always with the twins-come-earlier caveat. So mid-April seems to be the best guess. I'll keep you posted.

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On a slightly different note, a few weeks ago when Lofty and I were out at Mitchelton to look at a potential house, we were checking out the facilities nearby. As we approached the corner of the street he pointed out a well-known cake shop with the comment, "The Cheesecock Shape's nice and close". Whoops. Over to you, Uncle Sigmund.

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.)