Its all good...

Over the last few weeks there have been times when, if I did not know any better I would swear there was some sort of voodoo witch doctor in a remote corner of the planet poking pins into a doll that looks remarkably like me. I feel like I have grumbled and complained enough and that it doesn't matter if, despite the pressure stockings, I have cankles and swollen legs or that, at 36 weeks I am still throwing up, that the back brace, tummy tube and abdominal support have really not helped much at all, that after finishing the reports and pinatas I feel more exhausted than free and that every time someone asks how I am feeling I practically burst into tears. It's funny though how it sometimes takes an added aggravation to make you appreciate how good you've really got it.


There is some sort of story or fable about a man who grumbles about his house being so small that it is almost unbearable. He is miserable and cramped until someone says that they can fix the problem for him. The first thing that they do to help is to move his cow from the barn into his house. Then the pigs and the sheep and the horse, when there is physically no room to move the chickens are added and the man cries out: "You said that you could fix this but this is a hundred times worse than before!" To which his helper replies: "Fix it I shall." The first thing he did was move the cow back to the barn, then the pigs and the horse and the sheep and the chickens. One by one each contingent of animals was taken away until the man had his house to himself again. Suddenly his cramped quarters seemed spacious and he was grateful and happy and he had learned a valuable lesson in the process.



So far I've thrown up for 36 weeks and I still get nauseous and there are times when I think...seriously, what is this? But a few days ago I caught the sore throat / cold thing that has been going around and then I got to experience violent projectile vomiting on top of the swollen glands and dreadfully excruciating throat and suddenly the regular nausea and vomiting that I've been experiencing is not so bad and really I should be grateful that it is not worse and that I haven't had a sore throat to contend with the whole time. This is the only time that I am going to be 36 weeks pregnant with this child and I should enjoy it for what it is, because I will never get to be pregnant with this baby again. So, I pledge to embrace the back aches, and the swelling and the nausea and be grateful for the results it will bring...

And thus dawns the age of the pressure stocking

I'll spare you any photos of nasty varicose veins and torturous swollen limbs. I shall not describe the latest affliction that has caused hospital staff to urgently recommend the daily use of full length pressure stockings. And I thought that putting on socks in late pregnancy posed a challenge. Ha. I will simply say that at least now I can stand up more comfortably and am able to continue working, whereas a week ago I had serious doubts about being able to do either one for very much longer.

I also have a greater appreciation of what my dad has had to go through. He has worn pressure stockings every day for at least the last fifteen years. It sucks. But it sucks more without them. For a little while I tried pretending that they were tights, but that resulted in cankles by about 6 pm. No, they are not tights and there is no use pretending otherwise. To make matters worse they are a blinding white color with a tell tale blue patch at ankle level (what is with that?) Isn't it bad enough that they are hot and uncomfortable, highly unfashionable, (they don't go with anything) and that you must constantly keep hiking them up throughout the day?

Today my legs actually swelled up while wearing the darn things. Now Mom, I know you're probably thinking toxemia or some such thing, well it's nothing like that, just heat related. Meanwhile I'm thinking that, had I not been wearing the stockings today, I could probably pass as a body double for Jabba the Hut. Isn't that a pretty picture? Almost as pretty as the pressure stockings.

Forgive me father, for I have sinned...

I know how unhealthy McDonald's is. I used to work there for heavens sakes. I even know that McDonald's and other companies like them are responsible for vast amounts of disappearing rainforests so that land can be cleared to raise cheap beef. (Though perhaps not Australian franchises who claim to use local beef sources.) I know that some suppliers of meat keep the animals in inhumane conditions, that some live very sad lives only to die very cruel deaths. To say nothing of the vast amounts of waste generated every day and the dubious nutritional quality of some of the items on their menu. Knowing all this has kept me from eating at McDonald's for a very, very, long time. Generally the thought of it is anything but appetizing but then I got this craving. I really want a Big Mac. Or two. Perhaps three. Badly. I'm horrified, but I can't seem to help it. I have tried making burgers and tacos and other meaty dishes to give myself a protein fix. But the nausea and craving remain...I must have a Big Mac. So this morning after returning from the markets and feeling more queasy than ever I decide to do what any other heavily pregnant person would do...I set off to get the darn Big Mac. It is 10:27. A little early for most people to be requesting such things, but not for crazed mothers to be who have been fighting the inevitable for days. I am told that they do not start taking orders for burgers until 10:30. I'm aware. I ask if I could please pre-order and wait the three minutes and am told and I quote: " No. We can't do that."

So... let me just get this straight. We can put a man on the moon, we can probe the darkest recesses of outer space, we can teach chimpanzees to communicate and can unlock the mysteries of the atom, but we, apparently, do not have the ability to pre-order a Big Mac three minutes early. According to staff at this franchise there is absolutely no way that that is possible. Am I the only one that sees a problem with this?

Had I more time, or had I been wearing more appropriate attire, I would have parked the car and gone inside and gotten a serious Big Mac fix but sadly I had to flee the drive thru very much Big Mac-less because Mehran needed me home ASAP. I shall try again later. If I should fail once more I may have to learn to hunt. Cows - you have been warned.

Sorting and such

The last few days has seen me sorting through mountains of baby things. I have been meaning to do this since I was about 16 or so weeks along but with feeling nauseous and being slightly put off by the idea of crouching in the attic while balancing on support beams and sifting through boxes to find what I need I have repeatedly neglected to get to it, but now that I am rapidly approaching 28 weeks I decided it simply must be done (plus I have heaps of marking that I would rather not do...ahem) to say nothing of the fact that if I leave it much longer I may not fit through the manhole at all ( I also have had this dreadful vision of getting myself through, but then getting lodged in the manhole on the way down...it ends with firemen having to cut me loose from the ceiling and is not a pretty image.) Anyway it was luck or fate or perhaps something to do with the fact that I have heaps of marking which I feel inspired to leave for later that led me to insist on Mehran helping maneuver the ladder inside. Fortunately I could still fit without getting wedged in going up or down, unfortunately my girth blocked the hole as far as being able to get anything in or out. That left two options. One: shouting "Fire in the hole!" or "Look out below!" or "Bombs away!" and other such phrases as I dropped boxes and bags of assorted baby paraphernalia while trying not to squish the children or option two: getting Mehran and his brother (who conveniently happened to be visiting this morning) to empty the attic for me. Guess which one I chose? Then when everything else was out and I was sitting on the floor sorting through bits and pieces, my neighbour called and asked if there was anything we needed for the baby as she was sorting out her shed and giving away all of her old baby clothes. I said "I think that we're covered, but I'll pop over and take a peek" as I couldn't find the bibs or wraps and I had happened upon a pile of sadly discolored jumpsuits that I'm quite certain did not look so dingy when I packed them away. We came home with three bags of gorgeous baby clothes all in pristine condition, looking as if they had never been worn. By the way we have awesome neighbours. Have I said that before? I'll say it again. We have awesome neighbours.

The result is this: A charming child who has helped by trying on every possible item and regaling us with impromptu fashion shows always proceed by the delighted words "It still fits!" and a living room in chaos. With two tubs of boy clothes in various sizes still waiting to be sorted. Two huge bags of things to give away. Four boxes of girls things sorted into sizes and four loads of laundry (all baby items for the first 6-7 months), 1 baby bathtub, one bouncer, 1 car seat and a nagging suspicion that there are a few boxes that were missed as I am still missing my maternity things (which I could seriously use right now as I have exactly one pair of pants that fits) and the baby wraps and bibs... hmm. I may find myself up in the attic after all but for now I need to go sew some aprons. Anisa has been invited to no less than three birthday parties in the next few days and while we have something set aside for each of the girls I thought I would add a homemade touch as well. Plus now I have to find a home for all these boxes which will mean reorganizing the hall closets and I'm just not feeling it right now.

You know you're having a girl when...

At 22 weeks your tummy looks like this (and no, we're not having twins). Each day, despite the fact that you are now five months along, you get to experience your own personal vomit fest.

You are extra emotional and cry often and profusely for any reason at all.

You experience the joys of spontaneous acne, the likes of which most teenagers have never seen.

You develop what appears to be an unsightly rash along your neck. You soon learn two things. One: it is not a rash, but burst capillaries and two: They may or may not disappear after the baby is born...Sweet.

The "ultrasound man" (that sounds like a comic book hero, but I have to hand it to Bayan because it sure beats the heck out of sonograph technician) quietly indicates as much.

Shining lights

in an otherwise dark and dreary week:

her bright smile,

his sweet hugs,

her self developed action plan to improve her own behaviour

and butterfly kicks from this one.

Simple, little, things that did much to lift my spirit and remind me that, despite the obstacles and challenges, life is still very good.

My personal kriptonite

Also called kaleh pacheh. This is an Iranian delicacy roughly translated as sheep head soup. As you may be able to tell it includes sheep skulls (including the eye-balls and brains), tongues, and legs it can also contain hooves (but I have mercifully not encountered these.) Mehran loves this. Me, well... not so much. Especially when normal cooking smells can cause me to run gagging from the room. I have never made this. Nor do I have any intentions to. But someone did and Mehran brought a batch home to his pregnant wife because apparently I am not throwing up enough already. It is supposed to be really energizing and is great if you are going on a long hike. Personally I am not really up for a whole lot of hiking these days -though I may be rethinking that, especially if the reappearance of this dish becomes a regular thing. I hear distant Tibetan mountain tops are most beautiful this time of year.

Images from yahoo images. I couldn't bear to be in the room, let alone photograph these dishes. You undersatnd.