Diary of a newly pregnant lady*

Actual texts sent:

“I’ll give him a rat to lick and when he’s finished we can talk some more about how I’m feeling”.

“How bad is it that I just ate an entire packet of Twisties?”

“Yeah, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit. Kind of like Dodgeball, but not as funny.”

“Everything is disgusting. So disgusting. Dis. Gust. Ing.”

“When D-Day comes, I’ll be able to say with confidence that I could not have watched more television before the baby.”

Ways that other people have described childbirth for me:

“It’s like watching your favourite hotel burn down” – our friend, Justin.

“It’s almost orgasmic.” – random hippie on the Internet.

“Just like doing the splits over a box of dynamite” – Lorelei on the Gilmore Girls.

Names our baby will not be called:

Shine Manhattan

Tasmania

Koala

Stevia

Cairo

Mullet

L-A

Sequetia

Gary (Even despite this. Sorry, Gary.)

Events that have reduced me to tears:

When RuPaul on RuPaul’s Drag Race says, “If yo’ can’t love yourself, how in the hell you ever going to love anybody else? Can I get an Amen? Amen!”

Jill and Kevin’s wedding dance on YouTube.

When George Tucker broke it off with Lemon Breeland on Hart of Dixie (even though, technically, she had been having an affair for months with the Bluebell mayor Lavon Hayes).

The nightly ABC news.

Hold on by Wilson Phillips, especially in the sequence at the end of Bridesmaids.

Watching the Sunday water aerobics class work out to a techno version of Fantine’s I dreamed a dream from Les Mis.

Driving along Bagot Road with Tom Petty on the radio.

Anything bad that every happened to anyone, anywhere, ever.

Further examples of me not being on my A Game:

Running late for a doctor’s appointment and backing straight into a stranger’s car.

Being patient zero in a series of unfortunate events that led to Mum being locked out of the house.

Ordering a cheese and charcuterie plate as an entrée for the table.

Buying tickets to a concert which started at 9pm (!) and which required you to stand (!)

Not going to said concert and hearing afterward that it’s the best gig that anyone has ever been to, ever, in the history of the world. Or at least in Darwin.

Things I like:

Dry biscuits.

Ginger beer.

Eating every two hours.

Barley sugar.

Against the odds, jalapenos.

Porridge.

Roast potatoes.

Going to bed at 8pm.

Having a toilet no further than 20 metres away from me at all times.

Did I mention dry biscuits?

Things I don’t like:

Pictures of raw meat on Facebook.

Steak that’s a little bloody.

Basically, meat.

Garlic

Onion.

Garlic and onion.

Scrambled eggs.

Watching Douglas Stamper do anything on House of Cards.

Smells (including, but not limited to: salami, the toothpaste that has dried around my toothbrush, the smell of Mr Tea’s glass of clean-skin chardonnay sitting opposite me, my sweaty t-shirt and the limp, rejected spring onions sitting in our bin).

Fruit, nuts and legumes that the baby (or my uterus) have been likened to:

Brazil nut

Lentil

Lemon

Sesame seed

Kidney bean

Prune

Grapefruit

First ultrasound pic which means nothing to anyone bar me, Mr Tea and maybe my Mum who is now signing all emails "luv Granny T", because that's how she rolls.

First ultrasound pic which means absolutely nothing to anyone bar me, Mr Tea and maybe my Mum who is now signing all emails “luv Granny T”, because that’s how she rolls.

People I have genuinely wanted to punch in the face:

The folk responsible for making jalapeno jars too hard to open. (There’s nothing quite like composing a sternly worded complaint letter in your head: “Dear Old El Paso. I know we both have bigger problems than this. And yet…”)

The woman who drove through a give way sign to take my car spot at Parap Markets.

“Monica” from Port Au Prince who suggests Coca-Cola (warm or cold) as a cure for morning sickness.

The man who named it “Morning Sickness” when it’s actually all freaking day.

The medico who tut tutted “about time” and something about “clocks ticking” when I handed over my wee on a stick.

Me, for just writing “wee on a stick” on this blog. I’m really sorry.

Anyone who says, “Have you tried ginger? I hear it really helps.”

Anyone who says, “Really? I didn’t actually get morning sickness, myself.”

Anyone who says, “I loved being pregnant. Make sure you enjoy every precious minute of it.”

Stuff I have really said in the last six weeks:

“I just need a dry biscuit” – after Mr Tea made me close my eyes and put a box with a ring in my hands.

 On first finding out we were pregnant: “It’s going to be so great! We’ll love it and cuddle it and take it for walks and everything!”

While trying to have a conversation with a friend in Darwin without giving away the fact that I’m pregnant:

Me: Canberra’s great. Ummm…It’s Autumn, and they have roads and everything.

Her: Is everything OK?

In my head, after a text from Mr Tea telling me to keep my chin up: “I’ll give you a fucking chin up.”

The following conversation with my sister:

Me: And you know what? If men had to get pregnant, we wouldn’t be arguing about maternity leave! There would be pre-maternity leave! And another thing…

Her: You’re not going to put this on Facebook, are you?

To my parents who had cooked me dinner: “I just don’t want to eat parmesan cheese that’s five months past its use by date. I don’t think it’s too much to ask.”

 To Mr Tea: “Yes! Yes! Of course!” (after I had that dry biscuit oh so firmly in hand).

 

*Don’t worry lovely ones, I promise this won’t turn into a mummyblog. Just a little diversion to explain my hiatus. More postcards from the North for you very soon. x

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