Spudly's First Report Card

We had our antenatal review appointment yesterday, at which I was to get the all-clear for using the Birthing Centre, and get the results of the NT scan.

Important matters first:

• Nuchal fold measured 2.5mm, which is within tolerance.
• My risk of Downs Syndrome is 1:759, half the normal risk for my age group. Awesome.
• We heard Spudly's heartbeat again, this time a more sedate 153bpm. Seems it didnt appreciate the full bladder on Tuesday. Well, neither did I!
• Crown to rump length is 7cm.
• Spudly is, officially, an excellent baby.
• Next scan is on 1 November.
  

Now to me:

• My blood pressure 130/80, normal for me.
• My chest is clear.
• The top of my uterus is now just under my belly button.
  
• My paranoia about no nausea, headaches, emotional retardedness, painful tummy, various body parts going into spasm, etc is all perfectly normal and can be blamed on the progesterone. Stupid progesterone.
  
• I have an extra thud in my heart, which is consistent with my mitral valve prolapse.

As a result, I have to have an Echocardiogram in 3 weeks to check there is no backflow of blood into the heart. Once we have the results of that test and the 19 week scan, they will decide on Birthing Centre or not.

But apart from my dicky heart, which isnt really all that dicky, everything is Normal.

Fancy that.

What is this "normal" of which you speak?

Meet Spudly

Two amazing things happened yesterday.

1. I threw up for the first time. Stupid bloody wand monkeys making you drink 1 litre of water in half an hour when you already feel queasy. What do they expect you're gonna do?

2. I stopped worrying.

Here's why:


Measured 13 weeks. Heartbeat 180bpm. Seems to have the appropriate number of limbs. Keen on waving at the camera and kicking.

Crikey.

That's a baby.

In me.

So that paunch ISNT just peppermint icecream and macaroni cheese (listening, Jet?) Its an actual.baby.

Crikey.

It has its father's head.

As I was saying to Monkey Boy yesterday, I cant even get a tomato plant to start flowering in 7 weeks. How on earth does the Spudmeister go from a little blobby thing to an actual fully-formed human in 7 weeks?

No bloody wonder I've felt like crap.

So. Spudly. There you are.

Very nice to meet you at long last.

More input needed

One of us was not satisfied with the outcome of the last Poll. One of us has therefore decided that a similar, but different in an important way, question must be asked.

C'mon people. Do you want Spudly to come from a broken home?

Go vote then.

Infertility War Syndrome

We Reproductively Challenged Bitches must have some sense of what it must be like to be a war veteran. I think that now I finally understand why it is so hard for those men to come home and rejoin regular society. They just dont fit in anymore. They're experiences have been so utterly life-changing and so out of the realm of ordinary experience that no-one who hasnt been there can possibly relate to them. So they cant relate to "regular" people (or, "regular" people cant relate to them), and they dont want to keep in contact with their war mates because its too painful and brings back to many memories. What do they do? To whom can they turn for kinship? My guess is that there are precious few places they can turn.

This is kind of how I feel too. I've changed so much over the last two years that I dont fit into my "regular" group of friends anymore. I dont feel exactly like I fit in with women who are still in the trenches of infertility treatments. I dont feel comfortable in labelling myself "just another pregnant woman", because I'm not. I'm a pregnant infertile who is totally paranoid its all going to come crashing down in a big pile of bloody grossness at any minute. And that's a fairly select group with which to find a Local Chapter and have Coffee Mornings.

This sounds a bit like a "nobody loves me, everybody hates me" whinge. I know that's not true. There ARE people who love me. There are people who get what I'm going through (though they all exist in my computer). But my circle of comfort and belonging has changed, and I dont have anywhere - apart from with Monkey Boy - that feels like home now.

Its probably a transitory phase, and probably not helped by the increased hormones. I definately feel like I'm entering the "emotional and weepy" part of the proceedings. My therapist would tell me this is not at all surprising given what huge changes I've undergone and that it will feel strange and uncomfortable for a while.

But goddamn it, I hate strange and uncomfortable! I want warm and fuzzy and everybody loves me.

I want to not have been at the front line.

Is the Universe trying to tell me something?

I'd only just finished writing a couple of emails to people about how nobody loves me and everybody hates me or, conversely, how I hate everybody. Then I trundled off to check where the past day's visitors have come from.

There's a search query that found me.

I'm number 8 on the list of an msn search for "positive attitude".

Firstly, how bloody unlikely is it that you would put those two words together and think that my blog is a reasonable place to find what you're looking for?

Secondly, is it not telling me something that I end up being NUMBER EIGHT on the list?

Lalalala not listening...

Cricket is a dumbass game anyway.

We never liked cricket.

We realised how crap it is and decided to give it away.

We chose to lose so we never had to play again.

We seeded the clouds so it would rain and we'd lose time.

Warney deliberately dropped catches.

We bribed the umpires to make crap decisions.

Stupid cricket.

Spudly gets some sunshine

I still reckon it just looks like I'm fat, but that there is a 12 week old Spudly.

Milestone the second

12 weeks. I made it to twelve weeks.

In the past week:

• my nausea stopped
• the headaches that last for hours replaced it
• I got laid
  
• my lower back started hurting constantly (possibly due to point 3)
  
• the DBTs grabbed hold of my brain and wouldnt let go
• my Snarky Bitch levels have risen propitiously
  
• my belly popped
  
• I've been finishing off Spudly's pancreas
• my nausea came back (thus lessening DBTs)

Another whole week until the Nuckle-Head Scan, but I think I might actually be able to last that long now, without going completely insane.

I'll post a belly shot soon. Mostly, I think I just look fat and bloated. Monkey Boy thinks I look glorious, so I'll choose to believe him, and possibly wont divorce him this week. Or would that be next week?

This is not just a Poll

This is a "Lets-End-This-Argument-Once-And-For-All" Poll.

Its all about what one means by "this week" and "next week". One of us (I wont say which, so as not to skew the voting) thinks that "next Saturday" means the Saturday that is coming up next, (e.g. in two days). The other thinks that "next Saturday" means the one that is in the week after the current week.

This argument has been going on for about two years. We've vox-popped all our friends and the votes are split. We need an international perspective.

We both think the other's perspective is completely fucked.

Its up to all of you to save our marriage. So please, vote wisely!

The Stats are in.

50% of you cant start a relationship without alcohol.

50% of you think the idea of having sex for fun is rather amusing.

55% of you are either in your 30's, or have exceptional taste in music, or are teenagers just discovering the "retro chic" of the 80's.

74% of you first had sex between the ages of 16 and 23

75% of you like my honesty more than anything else.

28% of you have had between 1 and 5 sexual partners, but surprisingly, 27% of you have had over 30 or lost count...

64% of you are left-wing subversives

80% of you must have a weight problem, given your thoughts on peppermint iccream

25% of you would eat kitty pie if there was no dolphin pie left. 10% of you are allergic to pie.

The vast majority of you are only interested in voting in polls that are about sex or food.

I have therefore determined, through my extremely scientific study, that the average Pandamonium reader is a left-wing subversive in their 30's, obsessed with sex but doesnt actually enjoy it, has poor social skills, is appreciative of honesty, and despite being overweight likes eating Dolphin Pie.

You people are weird.

Batten down the yardmasts! Trim off the anchor! Bring me another cabin boy, this one's busted!*

I have to admit to something.

I like pirates.

Our engagement party was a Pirate Party. I was a wench, and Monkey Boy was the Cabin Boy (whom I later busted). The most original costumes were Varz wearing Aaaarrrgyle, and Mollarky, dressed as a sleazy video pirate.

My most-watched video is Tripod Tell The Tale of the Adventures of Tosswinkle The Pirate (not very well). I can recite every line. Its sad, I know.

Thus, (thus? Who the hell says thus?) I thought it beholden on me to spread the word about INTERNATIONAL TALK LIKE A PIRATE DAY on September 19.


'ere be the links, aaarrrr

http://www.talklikeapirate.com/piratehome.html

http://www.yarr.org.uk/index.html


so its time to practice those yarrs, me hearties and shiver-me-timbers, maties.


*I didnt write this line. Some very funny boys did.

One more thing...

I know its a new week, and therefore there should have been a new poll by now, but...meh. Cant be arsed at this point. Although I do have a shiny new question to put to you all, it will have to wait until I can be bothered collating the data from all ten previous polls and put together a profile of the Average Reader.

I am amused to learn, however, that none of the people who answered "My name is Julie and I lived in Brisbane" are actually Julie from Brisbane. Maybe those people know her though. Possibly through her previous connections to the Pie Underworld.

Babbling.

Bye.

This is why I take Prozac, right?

I am somewhat relieved to read today that I am not the only one having Dead Baby Thoughts. Somehow, to my mind, this makes it less likely that there is actually a dead baby, and more likely that I am just neurotic and paranoid.

However, my brain is not content to just accept this theory. Oh no! I read elsewhere, in comments in blogania, about antiphospholipid (did I even get that right?) antibodies causing miscarriages at any stage of pregnancy even when a heartbeat is seen, and immediately worry that I havent been tested for this APA dealy, and worry that I cant find all my test reuslts.

I am so fucked.

No, really, I am.

I also dreamt this morning that I went to the hospital for the NT scan and was given a drug to make me go into labour because I 'd had a missed miscarraige. Not only that, but my three brothers were all there (2 of whom are dead) and I was screaming at them that they'd never been there to support me before and they could fuck off and as far as I was concerned I didnt have any brothers, AND my ex, Fuckhead, was also there wanting to see Spudly and I had to get security to keep him away from me.

I envy people who dont rremember their dreams. I always remember mine. In full technicolour, with all senses working. Sometimes this is not a Good Thing.

As Monkey Boy said at 5am when I woke up out of this nightmare: "Fluffy bunnies, fluffy bunnies. Jumping kittens."

Ahhh...memories....

For the first time since the Fateful Day, I'm Back In The Saddle. All it took was for the nausea to subside. Who knew that when you dont feel like throwing up your toenails, you can actually feel...quite...receptive. Especially to the idea of Sex For Fun, and not having to keep one's legs in the air for half an hour afterwards, and knowing that there are only two obvious signs of whether we've Done It Right. I'd forgotten.

Sex. Fun. Who'd a thought?

Paranoid Moment # 3759

Middle of the night, I'm lying on my tummy. Realise that I can lie on my tummy without it hurting like it did a couple of weeks ago. Poke tummy. Poke tummy more. Poke tummy really really hard. Nothing. Decide that only possible explanation for lack of tummy pain is that Spudly is no more.

Realise that I didnt dry retch until 4pm yesterday. Put this together with lack of ouch in the tummy region and completely freak out.

Wake up Monkey Boy, who says a lot of sensible things about ligaments changing and uterine growth and hcg levels finished peaking and such and such. Think these are all very sensible things, BUT....

Stupid brain.

And I bet Santa isnt real either...

Gaddamn it! I so wanted that story to be real! And they're not even good cookies? Go on, dash all my hopes and dreams then.

When I wake up, more often than not before dawn each morning, I usually have several witty or deep posts floating around in my head. Somewhere between the birdies starting their singing and me finishing my surfing of everyone else's blogs, those ideas just...disappear. I cant even remember what they were now. And they were really good. Crap.

What I will do, though, is apologise generally for not commenting on blogs as much as I used to. I do read every blog on my blogroll every day. I am happy when things are going well and sad when they're not. My brain just tends to seize up and nothing worth writing comes out most times.

And besides, when its a crappy old grey and rainy day, the Gulf Coast of the US is descending into anarchy thanks to a government that couldnt give a crap, and the universe is fucking with too many people that I've come to care about, what can one really say?

I'll plagiarise Lumi and say: Great big mucousy donkeys balls.

Free the Cookies!

Here's an email I received today.

Look, I dont know if this is an urban legend, or if it did really happen, but I figure that a cookie recipe is a cookie recipe and there must be at least one other person out there who would like to subvert the dominant paradigm one cookie at a time.

-------------------

If you do make them you definitely need to halve the mixture.

This is a true story. Please forward when you finish reading!

A little background: Neiman-Marcus, if you don't know already, is a very expensive shop; i.e. they sell a typical $8.00 t-shirt for $50.00.

Let's let them have it!

THIS IS A TRUE STORY
My daughter and I had just finished lunch at a Neiman-Marcus Café in Dallas Because both of us are such biscuit lovers, we decided to try "the Neiman-Marcus cookie". It was so excellent that I asked if they would give me the recipe. The waitress said with a small frown, "I'm afraid not, but you can BUY the recipe." I asked how much, and she responded; Only two fifty
- it's a great deal!" I agreed to that, and told her to add it to my bill.

Thirty days later, I got my VISA statement, and the Neiman-Marcus charge was $285.00. I looked at it again, and I remembered I had only spent $9.95 for two sandwiches and about $20.00 for a scarf. At the bottom of the statement, it said, "Cookie Recipe-$250.00". $312.50 (AUS) That was outrageous!

I called Neiman's Accounting Department and told them the waitress had said it was "two fifty", which clearly does not mean "two hundred and fifty dollars" by any reasonable interpretation of the phrase. Neiman-Marcus refused to budge.

They would not refund my money because, according to them; "What the waitress told you is not our problem. You have already seen the recipe. We absolutely will not refund your money."

I explained to the Accounting Department lady the criminal statutes which govern fraud in the state of Texas. I threatened to report them to the Better Business Bureau and the Texas Attorney General's office.


I was basically told: Do what you want. Don't bother thinking of how you can get even, and don't bother trying to get any of your money back"

I said, OK, you've got my $250, and now I'm going to have $250 worth of fun." I told her that I was going to see to it that every cookie lover in the world with an e-mail account gets a $250 cookie recipe from Neiman-Marcus... for free.

She replied, "I wish you wouldn't do that." I said, "Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before you RIPPED ME OFF!" and slammed down the phone.

So here it is! Please pass it on to everyone you can possibly think of. I paid $250 for this, and I don't want Neiman-Marcus to EVER make another penny from this recipe!

NEIMAN-MARCUS COOKIES (Recipe may be halved)

2 cups butter
24 oz. chocolate chips
4 cups flour
2 cups brown sugar
2 tsp. (Bicarb) soda
1 tsp. salt
2 cups sugar
1 8 oz. Hershey Bar (grated). (Cadbury chocolate for
Australians)
5 cups blended oatmeal
4 eggs
2 tsp. baking powder
2 tsp. vanilla
3 cups chopped nuts (your choice)

Measure oatmeal, and blend in a blender to a fine powder.
Cream the butter and both sugars.
Add eggs and vanilla, mix together with flour, oatmeal, salt, baking powder, and Bicarb (soda). Add chocolate chips, Hershey Bar, and nuts. Roll into balls, and place two inches apart on a cookie sheet. Bake for 10 minutes at (180) 375 degrees. The above quantities make 112 cookies.

Make the funny lady stop

Looking to waste some time? Want to laugh until you cry?

Have a looksee at Baby's Named A Bad Bad Thing.

I think these people need to realise that since there are only 26 letters in the alphabet and 6 billion people on the planet, no matter how hard you try, finding a "unique" name for your child is pretty much a waste of time. Unless you WANT to saddle someone with Fijwytnogked. Which might actually be Finnish.

My favourite quote from this site:

I really like Freddy Prinze Jr. I heard his dad was really talented and died tragically. What was his name?