You shrunk my baby

Since I got pregnant, I’ve slept like a baby. (That would be the Proverbial Baby rather than my own, who spends at least half of any twenty four hour period wide awake pointing at stuff.)

Even during the first couple of months after Finn was born I could cast off consciousness in a matter of seconds, whether in the shower, weeding the garden, with my head in a bowl of muesli or waiting for the traffic lights to turn green.

In the last couple of weeks, Finn has started sleeping through the night. Conversely, my own sleep pattern has gone all to cock.

The other night – I’m not sure what time it was, but it felt like 03:23 hrs or thereabouts – I can’t recall what I’d been doing, but I was getting back in bed when Andrew’s eyes clicked open demonically.

“You smell,” he said, then rolled over.

I’m not sure whether or what I responded, but I woke up the following morning aggrieved and fully outraged. I mean: I just spent nine months carrying his child – of course I’m not going to smell the freshest. In any case, it’s been a long time since Andrew smelled like an advert featuring an ocean wave breaking over a rock – in fact, the last time was when we met and I was never entirely sure whether the seductive scent was Andrew Musk or bacardi.

“What’s up with you?” asked Andrew, catching a glower.

“You told me I smell!” I snapped, waving the baby at him threateningly (it was the only thing to hand, but in fact it’s difficult applying a baby for menacing effect, a bit like trying to terrorize someone while wearing leg-warmers).

“I- what? When? I didn’t- I’d never say something like that.”

I’m not sure how he can claim that, since has no problem telling me I should do some crunchies (he alleges his motive is preempting back-ache, although it would be a bonus if I reverted to my pre-pregnancy body. I’m drawing up Andrew’s daily workout schedule involving multiple sets of 100 lunges, star-jumps, squat-thrusts, bench dips, back extensions, inclined pressups, pushups, situps, pull-ups, shuttle runs, hip raises, rotational chops, lat extensions and splits.)

However, although I can never tell when Andrew’s lying, I usually know when he’s not. After further discussion wherein I refused to make him coffee, it turned out I dreamed the whole thing.

I should have known. I still half-wake around the time Finn used to call for his night feed and spend the remaining interim until morning fending off horribly vivid nightmares. Most of these involve Finn e.g. forgetting to take him out of the frying pan or accidentally washing his head clean off.

The stuff dreams are made of

One night – and I have to warn you: this is WRONG on so many levels in so many dimensions – I dreamed Finn and I were at a roller-skating theme park.

(HEY. You were warned.)

I wanted to go on the flying fox. Obviously I couldn’t take Finn because that would have been irresponsible, so I asked some random group of children to look after him. When I returned he was gone.

I scoured the theme park until I finally located the Lost & Found Office where there were loads of cardboard boxes full of extremely ugly babies. I got more and more agitated – I kept forgetting which boxes I’d looked in – the staff were more interested in telling me how negligent I was rather than being helpful – but none of the babies was mine.

I finally found him in a wet cardboard box – and they’d SHRUNK HIM.

And I was all, “You call ME negligent when YOU SHRUNK MY BABY?!”

Love and stuff

Finn and his proud mother

For Mothers’ Day, I got an extra hours sleep, a bottle of Baileys, and a cheese-making kit.

What was that? Oh, a breast-feeding joke. I’m VERY disappointed in you. I dare you – in fact, I TRIPLE DARE you – to come up with a new one. I guarantee you can’t; my in-laws have covered them all. There is no lactation related joke in this universe I haven’t heard before – sometimes multiple times. Evidently I need to be more conscientious in remarking on the deficiency of dickage amongst Husband’s family.

It’s a measure of how much I’ve changed that my Mothers’ Day card made me cry rather than scathe it with derision. Also, that I was only marginally more stoked about pressies and breakfast in bed, than discovering the washing was dry after a week soggily drooping on the clothes line.

Finn’s here; he lives and breathes; he’s a laundry generating machine; you can’t move in the living room without tripping over a brightly coloured toy that rattles; and he occupies (conservatively) 95% of my thoughts and time. Yet even when I’m holding him in my arms with his tiny fingers curled around my thumb, and feel the warmth of him and kiss his baldy little head, I can still barely believe he’s real.

Despite all the years I longed for a child, the concept of ‘motherhood’ holds limited appeal. I used to be young, carefree, full of potential. I disdained Hallmark cards. When I got drunk nobody thought I was a sad old trollop.

All that has changed and I’m struggling to adopt my new identity:

Parent.

Skill-set: accurate prediction of vomit trajectory and identification of several varieties of poo.

However, one thing is beyond question.

I LOVE being Finn’s mother.

Rub a dub dub, the candlestick maker’s grub

Me> You know Rub A Dub Dub?

Me> Three men in a tub?

Me> The butcher-

Husband> The baker and- who was it again?

Me> The candlestick maker, yeah. Now, if they’re at sea several weeks they’ll get pretty hungry, so they’ll probably have to eat one of them. You know: instead of all three dying of starvation, only one dies.

Me> Of cannibalism.

Husband> Um-

Me> Well, it’s pretty obvious who’s going to be on the menu.

Husband> It is?

Me> Of course! It’s going to be fillet of candlestick maker. Because there’s no call for candles in modern society.  

Husband> Well, I don’t know. The candlestick maker might-

Me> Shed some light on the situation? Hur hur hur. Hurhur.

Husband> Jesus, there’s always one.

Husband> Wait- what about the baker?

Me> No. It’s feasible – perhaps improbable but still within the bounds of possibility – that the baker might somehow procure the raw materials to make bread and therefore feed the other two.

Husband> I think that’s pretty unlikely.

Me> Whatever.

A Better Person

Ensprogged people often refer to how being a parent makes you A Better Person. Self-sacrificing. Nurturing, loving, wise, selfless. Calm even when covered in curdled milk. Your own needs become more like optional luxuries.

And so I had Progeny and eagerly awaited my transformation into A Better Person.

I’m devastated to report that hasn’t happened.

Quite the contrary. In fact, marinating in spew makes me kinda mean.

Now don’t get me wrong: I will do anything for my son. There is literally nothing in the world that will get me up in the middle of the night except addressing The Boo’s needs – or my side of the bed being on fire.

But basically, the rest of you can all go to hell. Because I’ve turned into the  type of mother I swore I’d never be. I eat muesli in the car, adjust my jugs in public and stop my shopping trolley diagonally across the aisle because CAN’T YOU SEE I HAVE A CHILD I’M ENTITLED GODDAMMIT! I cut people off mid-sentence to gurgle at my son who – let’s face it – generally has no interest in me, being quite content conversing exclusively with his hands.

I turn on the windscreen wipers instead of indicating and have lost all spatial appreciation for my vehicle. Since I can’t seem to fit into the extra-wide ‘mummy moron’ parking space, I use up half the adjoining space for the disabled. (Really, I can’t see that manoeuvering a wheelchair is any more difficult than operating a carseat.)

So all things considered, having a child has made me more selfish – and also prone to burping instead of saying ‘thank you’, although that might have more to do with living in Oamaru. No, that’s not fair; most Oamaruvians have deliciously lovely manners which are far better than mine. (Except the bloke who tried to chat me up outside The Plunket Rooms when I was eight months pregnant, which was undoubtedly rude although – more likely – certifiably insane.)

I know less than nothing about raising children despite pretending to read various tomes on the subject, but it makes sense that the best way to teach your child is by example. With this in mind, I’ve been trying to treat Husband with kindness, consideration and above all respect.

I can’t BELIEVE how insanely difficult it is. Seriously, it has proved the biggest challenge of parenthood (also quitting swearing – but that’s another blog post). I never realized how appalling my manners are. Although I’m pretty sharp at expressing gratitude – whether verbally or intestinally – I’ve recently realized I never say ‘please’. I mean to, and always THINK it; but the word doesn’t complete the full round-trip.

I’m attempting to redress the issue but it’s still mechanical rather than innate. I’ll humbly request command Andrew to do something and then, after three or four seconds, remember to append the word ‘please’, which – by that stage – comes across sounding pointed and borderline aggressive.

At least having explained the situation to Andrew, he now just rolls his eyes instead of stamping off shouting “All right all RIGHT!”

Violent salvo of squelch

I brought a banana chocolate fudge cake OH HOLY MOLAR SO SCRUMPTIOUS! along to the Tupperware party last Thursday.

I’d never been to a Tupperware party before. Apparently there are two types: one version where everyone sits around fingering snap-lid tubs, and the other featuring sex toys and lingerie that promotes rather than reduces chafing. I presume it was the former type of Tupperware party since, although there were some strange-looking pieces of plastic, none of them looked as if they’d fit up the fanny.

I brought the Tiny Monster along, but he got so distressed we had to leave early. He must REALLY dislike Tupperware – or perhaps he was protesting the price.

I had my last remaining wisdom tooth extracted at the dentists’ last Tuesday. I was almost as nervous about the procedure as I was about my caesarian. When I had my three wisdom teeth extracted in Dubai I actually fainted. (Er. It was during the preliminary examination where I nearly garroted myself on the x-ray machine; I think it was due to a critical build-up of anticipation.)

“Probably because you’re attached to your teeth,” offered the dentist by way of explaining the phenomenon (he must have had a few puffs of nitrous oxide between me and his previous patient).

“Um, I’m pretty attached to my uterus as well,” I said.

Then he insisted on fully disclosing how painful the three injections would be. Look, of course it’s going to HURT; I’m about to be stabbed with a needle by a medically qualified sadist; just quit the small talk/foreplay and get on with it already.

As it turned out, the extraction lasted only about six minutes from start to finish. In contrast, the filling he did afterwards took nearly three quarters of an hour.

I wasn’t looking forward to caring for my little man the rest of the day, but in fact he was wonderful apart from occasionally head-butting me in the jaw with deadly precision.

When I related one of these incidents, “Did he cry?” asked Andrew.

“No, but I nearly did.”

Hilariously, after Finn hurls his head into your soft bits, he gets all outraged about his sore cranium. Same when he does it to the floor – especially when we sit around chanting: “Face plant! Face plant!”

I’m trying to teach Finn head-butting is only an appropriate form of expression for the Scots. Since he’s half-Irish he should be practicing knee-capping or perfecting the subtle art of poking peoples’ eyes out with a pointy stick.

Our Tiny Monster is growing so fast. The Plunket Nurse Harpy visited yesterday morning and remarked how sociable he is: all wide smiles, chatting away, solid eye-contact, turning to look at whoever is talking. However, he showed hints of passive-aggressive behaviour when he yarfed down her denim jacket. I’m going to train him to do that on command.

Speaking of bodily fluids – also boogers and poop on the occasions they don’t fall under the ‘fluid’ category – I suppose I could have just gone with ‘bodily fluids and/or solids’ – I remain mesmerized by the size of the bogeys Finn produces from his tiny nostrils. The only possible explanation is they expand when exposed to oxygen.

I always resolved never to be the type of mother who subjected others to her child’s poop, in either descriptive or demonstrative form. I’m about to break that rule, but I’ll make it as euphemistic as possible. Finn has recently taken to detonating what I can only describe as ‘atomic shits’. He usually saves it for when he’s sitting on someone’s knee; I always wince when he emits that delicate little grunt which precedes a violent salvo of squelch. Sometimes I worry he might blow someone’s leg off.

Rather than wiping him down, it’s often easier to fling him in the shower. He loves showering with mum or dad, to the extent that he hasn’t had a bath for weeks. Andrew’s nervous about Finn being so slippery he drops him, but I figure it adds an element of spontaneity. I hold Finn against my shoulder with one hand while I wash him with the other, and he thrusts his head back into the stream until water sluices down his face.

Finn doesn’t cry much any more. I hope this is due to maturity rather than extreme neglect like babies in Romanian orphanages. On the positive side it’s much more peaceful. He still complains, but it’s more along the lines of: “Oh I say, chaps, don’t mean to be a nuisance, but I’m not entirely content – I don’t mean to imply I’m unhappy, as such – frightfully sorry – I’ll just mutter to myself here another while – carry on.”

No I will NOT say 'cheese'

It’s actually pretty easy to dissuade him from grouchiness by giggling at him, or tickling his face with my hair, or simply kissing him vigorously until he gives up. Sometimes I worry he’ll grow up thinking an acceptable way of resolving a dispute with someone is pressing their nose and shouting ‘BEEP!’.

Although I do think world leaders should consider adopting this as a technique for conflict resolution.

Something scary

Finn spooks himself out

Poison berry pie

I wasn’t sure what the berries were, but they were located beside the blueberry bush in the garden, so I figured they probably weren’t closely related to the deadly nightshade of the family Solanaceae. In any case, they were very tasty.

After looking up redcurrant recipes on the Internet – which didn’t take long because there were only two and one of them was for redcurrant jelly – I made a German cake with a lemon-cheesecake style crust and a meringue filling containing the berries.

Andrew pronounced the dessert ‘strange’, but only thought to ask what it was after he’d finished a slice. Unfortunately, instead of confidently asserting: ‘Redcurrant pie. Would you like another helping?’, I made the mistake of saying, ‘Er. Redcurrant pie, I think. I’m not sure. I always thought redcurrants grew in clusters, like vines, but these . . . don’t. Anyway. You finished with that plate?’

Andrew immediately fired up the iPad to confirm the berries were redcurrants. Unfortunately, the pictures on Google Images showed they were clearly not redcurrants; for a while Andrew desperately searched for sufficient evidence to prove they were rowan berries, before he announced they were obviously holly berries and he ‘felt sick’.

Well we were both still alive the following morning – so that was a relief – although Andrew still felt queasy so I advised him to take a Panadol and perhaps not speak for a while.

Now Andrew has the dog pre-taste anything I serve him, believing I’m engaged in a conspiracy to off him, my motivation for which is still unclear. He still refers to it as poison pie, but I subsequently discovered they were cranberries.

In any case, it seems unlikely I’ll make it again.

Special Forces Sleep

We’ve had fabulous weather over the last couple of weeks: gorgeous sunny days with a crispy winter edge. We’ve explored more of the tracks in Herbert Forest, and Husband’s been out fishing with Agent of Death twice. I want to take Finn out in the boat to get him used to sailing, since it would be awful if he ended up with Andrew’s stomach (forcibly ejects contents when a duck paddles past). Her Goatiness is horrified by the prospect, being of the opinion you can’t train a baby to grow a pair of sea-legs.

The Boo turned 12 weeks last Thursday and appears to have grown again overnight – it might have been Monday or Tuesday.

He spends much more time awake now and is generally a happy go lucky little fella, quite content to squirm around his mat, kicking his legs, gnawing his fists, gurgling, chatting away or working out complex algorithms in his head. His pure, gummy grin would make me weep for joy if I didn’t get a grip. When he’s like this, I love his company; there’s nobody else in the world I’d prefer to spend time with.

BUT THEN, in the early evening he turns into Tiny Monster; kind of a miniature version of The Incredible Hulk – only in red. Over the last few days his scream has evolved/mutated into a screech that wilts the plants at the top of the drive. He can occasionally be pacified with dancing, but I just don’t have the energy or, for that matter, the moves or hand-eye coordination.

Furthermore, he had grown accustomed to falling asleep on top of me. When he was younger, I was fairly confident Finn was down if he didn’t wake up within 15 minutes. However, it got to the point where I’d carefully peel him off my shoulder, lower him slooowly into his carry-cot; and even if I managed to avoid whacking him on the hood, his eyes would snap open the moment his head hit the mattress. Then he’d declaim my bitter betrayal at length.

A couple of weeks ago I decided it was time to put some shape on Finn’s routine. That sort of carry-on was simply not to be tolerated. What our household needed was discipline, regulations, boundaries, possibly smacking. I’m sure I read somewhere that spanking babies to sleep can be most effective.

I approached the project with confidence: put Finn down when he was still awake, and clearly communicated my expectation that he would fall asleep. Which he did – after crying for an hour and a half.

I know those of the old school of child-rearing basically stored their babies in a box in the fridge, firm in the conviction they were hardening us up – and I admire that. Truly, I will do whatever it takes if I think it is the right thing.

But I can’t reconcile my baby spending that long crying himself to sleep.

I could argue that he was never in any serious distress: the wail never reached a grade above outrage. But then, he was hardly crying from an abundance of glee. And it just . . . doesn’t seem like a nice way to spend an hour and a half. As I can verify, since I spent most of that time in tears myself.

So then I tried the same thing, only I set the oven timer every five minutes and basically sat there nibbling my knuckles and twitching, watching the seconds count down until I’d rush to soothe him: rock his carry-cot, sing to him, pick him up if necessary.

The process took another hour and a half. My son really has remarkable stamina.

Finn having blasted my logic (i.e. tired = sleep), I did some research and decided to try the pick up/put down method championed by The Baby Whisperer Who’s Dead. Although it borders the vicinity of healing-crystals up the yoni, I evidently didn’t have the chops for Special Forces Sleep. Motherhood is teaching me a lot about myself, including that contrary to my own self-image (determined, bitchy, kind of chilling on occasion) I might actually be something of a wuss.

The pick up/put down method involves picking your child up as soon as he cries then, when he stops, lovingly yet firmly returning him to his cot until he falls asleep – the idea being that eventually any horizontal configuration of child results in instant sleep. ‘The first time it might take 30 pick up/put downs’, stated a website.

Well, over the course of an hour I lost count how many times I plucked The Boo out of his cot. It got to the stage where he’d resume crying as soon as I laid him back down; then upon reclining him as much as half a degree; until he was basically roaring all the time.

So that blowed.

We finally reached a compromise, whereby I relaxed and stopped forcing my poor son to sleep, and Finn often does. I’ve learned to read Finn’s cues that he’s tiring. When he starts bitchin’ I flip him onto his stomach; when he head-butts the floor I feed him, check his nappy, then put him down. If he’s still awake after five minutes, I pick him up and cuddle him or, depending what noise he’s making, rock the cot and/or sing him some Neil Diamond. If he’s still grizzling after another five minutes, I recheck his nappy, then return him to his cot. If a final stint fails, Finn wins and I try to be a gracious loser. No, really. I just train harder for the next battle.

It’s only in the last couple of weeks that I’ve felt as if I’m getting a grip on my child and his rhythms.

Apologies for the angle on this video; I took it myself while Finn was on his change table first thing in the morning. However, he frowns at the camera, so I had to hold it off to one side while I distracted him.

I know an old lady who swallowed a shoe

Long ago I became resigned to my musical genius never being appreciated in my own lifetime.

I’m delighted to report that unhappy situation is now remedied; my son LOVES my singing. My heartbreaking ear-splitting voice screech raised in song yowl makes him smile grimace, soothes him shuts him up, lulls stuns him to sleep. 

Being unacquainted with nursery rhymes or anything even vaguely age-appropriate, I’ve exposed Finn to an eclectic selection of Bruce Springsteen, Linkin Park, an assortment from Boney M’s back catalogue, ‘Oh Baby Boo’ sung to the tune of ‘Danny Boy’, and various hymns (indeed). 

After some trial and error I discovered ‘All Out of Love’ by Air Supply was the most effective at stopping Finn crying – or drowning him out. On one of our first car-trips as a family, with Finn bawling his lungs out in the back seat, Andrew and I discordantly roared back:- 

I’m lying alone!
With my head on the phone!
Thinking of you till it hurts! 

I figure you’re never too young to learn about the agony of heartache. Although I’ve often thought the pain described by the lyrics above is most likely due to using a telephone as a pillow, and could be easily remedied by taking a couple of Panadol for the melodrama. 

(Yes, I know the lyrics to ‘All Out of Love’. The only comment I have to make on the matter is that my mind is a prodigious repository of arcania and bizarre words. I may struggle to recall our house address, but I can recite the lyrics of any Neil Diamond hit circa early seventies.) 

I used to hum ‘Lara’s Theme’ from Dr Zhivago to send Finn to sleep, until I realised he prefers the Irish National Anthem. The big surprise is that I remember the words – in Irish. No idea what they mean. In essence, I believe it’s about the British being a bunch of bastards. 

Apart from inciting hatred, the national anthem is a musical expression of Finn’s cultural heritage – and also a slice of social history. Because back in the eighties, when I was a teenager, the national anthem was played at the end of every disco. It was the most brutally effective way of getting rid of people. The lights would snap on and we’d all freeze, bright red and shiny, blinking stupidly, ears buzzing; the boys with beer-stains down their fronts and lipstick smeared up to their ears; the girls with soggy perms and mascara exploded down their faces, trying not to catch the eye of the boy who’d dry-humped their leg all through ‘Eternal Flame’ – because that song lasts even longer than the flame. 

Then, swaying earnestly in a rolling sea of beer bottles, plastic cups, peanut packets and soggy crisps, we’d put our hands on our hearts and sing the national anthem. 

Ah, happy days. 

Since starting SPACE I’ve learned some nursery rhymes, but I’ve also started composing my own songs for my son. And we’ve had some team efforts:- 

Me (in the bathroom): I know an old lady who swallowed a shoe! 

Andrew (with Finn in the bedroom): Now, what do you do? If you swallow a shoe? 

Me: You shit it out the sphincter, la la lalala.

We’re having a blast.

Crack team of squalor

Last night at The Outlaws’, Andrew dropped his baked potato down the side of Her Goatiness’ new leather sofa, Finn barfed on a contrasting sofa cushion, I spilled my tomato juice on the floor and Jed wiped his arse on the carpet. I simply cannot conceive of any greater pinnacle of achievement as a family unit.

Finn and the Gurgles of Doom

Finn turned 10 weeks old last Thursday. If you sit and watch him, you can practically SEE him growing.

Finn learns his three times tables

We went for a walk on Saturday with Andrew carrying the papoose. Finn’s now large enough that we turned him to face forward. He was avid; every time I looked around, all I could see were his big, big eyes peering out over the edge of the papoose. 

As you can see, Finn’s metamorphosis into Andrew’s Mini-Me is nearly complete - although he has his Aunt Florrie’s pout and Agent of Death’s chicken legs

He learned how to roll during the week. When I put him on his tummy, he drops his right arm and rolls onto his back. Upon his first attempt, he flung himself onto the kitchen floor and clonked his head. He was unimpressed by that effort – yet undaunted. Despite repeatedly performing the trick, he never fails to shock himself with the result. I have to be careful about strapping him onto his change table.
 
Speaking of which, he LOVES his change table. He’ll be loudly complaining about room service and the instant I put him on it he starts flirting shamelessly with the maid. I’m not sure why he enjoys it so much, especially when most of the time it involves having his bottom squeezed. 

On Thursdays we go to a playgroup called SPACE (which Andrew refers to as SPAT). Finn is fascinated by other children and lies on the playmat gazing adoringly at them. I’m required to sing songs like ‘Tickling Rain’ and ‘Head! Shoulders Knees and Toes’, which I have unwillingly adopted as the soundtrack to my life supported by a bass of farting.
 
The first week we had to discuss whether parenting was easier or harder than we originally expected, and how having a child has changed our lives. “Do you enjoy talking about that sort of shit?” enquired Andrew during the debrief over dinner, “because it would drive me insane.” I frequently fear for the man’s mental health since he evidently has the most tenuous of grips on it. 

We also do activities like make picture frames and bath balls. Last week I inadvertently arrived half an hour late – happily just in time for tea and biscuits and bath balls. Since I had to feed Finn, this involved supervising the coordinator while she made my bath balls: “Excuse me, can you mix the cornflour in better? Don’t you have any blue food colouring? Smaller balls, please. Make sure they’re uniformly round, thanks.”
 
I was amazed to see one of the children was already sitting.
 
“And he’s only 11 weeks old!” I marvelled to Her Goatiness.
 
“Are you sure?” said my mother-in-law doubtfully. “Sounds very advanced for an 11 week old.” 

Poor old bird, I thought; totally out of touch with children.
 
Turns out the kid wasn’t 11 weeks after all; he was- “7 months?!” said Andrew. “Did you not notice he was a bit bigger than Finn?”
 
In other news, our Class of November 2011 Antenatal Reunion was last Saturday week. I offered to organise it ‘because I’m very organised’.
 
Well, I lost the contact list and had to ask the coordinator for another. When she finally emailed back, I didn’t recognise one of the couples on the list. Assuming it was simply an attack of Post-Pregnancy Brain, I called ‘Beryl’ and had several in-depth conversations with her about the weather and motherhood – before I realised the coordinator had mistakenly included the couple from another Antenatal Class. 

In any case, Beryl didn’t show up for the Class of November 2011 Antenatal Reunion. Unfortunately, neither did anyone else except Sinead, Chris and their son. Since I’d sent Husband off dirt-biking, it was possibly the crappiest reunion in the history of the world ever.

OMG he’s SO UNBELIEVABLY CUTE! Oh, you were about to say that? Sorry

Sharp as a sack of teddy bears

Me: Where did I put the linseed? Perhaps in this cupboard . . . no. I’m sure I bought some the other day. It was in a bag on the floor by the fridge- oh. Still there.

Husband: Well, that’s hardly surprising. Shopping often stays on the floor for months-

Me: Oh, come on! That’s a bit of an exaggeration. Days, maybe.

Husband: Weeks.

Me: Ok, you know- I didn’t realize this was a negotiation. I wish to revise my starting point. Hours. Shopping often stays on the kitchen floor for HOURS.

Husband: Months.

Me: Days.

Husband: Weeks.

Me: Exactly.

Me: Wait- no- how did you- what happened there? I’m confused.

Husband: Still haven’t kicked Pregnancy Brain, huh?

Me: Maybe . . . if I’d started at . . . minutes?

Your fly’s down

Finn’s 8-10 week Plunket appointment was this morning.

The Plunket Nurse immediately established a tactical advantage by enquiring whether I needed a breast pad – which I assume is the Plunket equivalent of saying your fly’s down when it’s not. Because I wasn’t leaking.

At least, not much.

When I demurred, she swiftly pressed home the advantage by asking whether I was clinically depressed.

“Who- you mean- ME?”

I actually looked around to see if some lank-haired dead-eyed twitcher had crashed the appointment. I mean: my jeans fit; it was a beautiful day; Finn and I had just strolled through the Oamaru Gardens; I had only a suggestion of dribble in my hair, which was perfectly straight; and just for a change I had remembered to apply mascara to both eyes. Quite frankly, I was positively brimming with bounteous motherhood, the fucking epitome of relaxed, ruddy-faced mental health.

In the face of such a vicious onslaught, perhaps it’s no wonder I let slip that during mealtimes we sometimes placed Finn in his bouncy chair on the dining table.

“I would question the safety aspect of that arrangement,” said Nurse Plunket, menacingly swiveling her steel eye.

Now, being Finn’s mother has opened up whole new avenues of anxiety for me. Sorry; did I say avenues? Make that motorways. I worry about him falling down a well, or becoming allergic to polyester, or being unpopular in school, or doing drugs, or his ears growing disproportionately large. Recently I had a nightmare that he went blind. In summary: I have anxiety covered without the Plunket Nurse’s assistance.

But the LAST THING I worry about is a baby who’s not even aware he has ARMS undoing both clasps on a bouncy chair’s safety harness, then propelling himself up and out and over the side. Or bouncing so energetically that the chair springs past his parents and onto the floor. (That’s the second-last thing.)

And even my imagination does not extend to our solid wood dining table developing a sudden and alarming tilt that defies the bouncy chair’s non-slip grips.

She’ll have to do A LOT better than that to alarm me.

Amateur.

Finn wakes up

Heeey!

 

How YOU doin?

Sharkattack!

This post is about norks.

Specifically mine.

WHAT?

Ok, I grant you this may be unexpected. This is possibly the first post brought to you by the jubblier parts of my anatomy. I’ve always prided myself on being a closet prude (as documented here).

However, IVF strips away much of your modesty, and breastfeeding pretty much sucks away any that remains. You know your personal boundaries have undergone a subtle shift to the region of Albania when you greet the Fastway courier with a funbag flopped out.

In fact, recently I’ve wondered what I’ve been so precious about all these years. There’s nothing special about my norks. They’re round, squishy, kind of furry in the colder months. See? Same as everyone else’s.

So. When I was pregnant, Andrew and I discussed how we would feed our child. Formula? Breast? Throw a few bones into the garden and let him fight it out with the dog?

In the end, the decision was clear: buy a big box of chicken necks and . . . HAHA ONLY JOKING, PLUNKET NURSE! You know: joke? Something said or done to provoke laughter or cause amusement, often culminating in a punchline which is why mine might have confused you? Ok. Sorry. Please don’t alert Child Welfare Services.

No but SERIOUSLY, it seemed willfully irresponsible not to breastfeed Finn. It’s the most nutritious source of food; boosts the immune system; allows the baby to regulate his own supply; and is fully supported by the Ministry of Health and its associated minions.

In fact, the MoH’s informational material was positively inspirational. The promotional DVDs featured joyful women leaping through waves with their sated infant swinging from a nipple. Breastfeeding is the most natural thing in the world, they aggressively stressed. And totally painless if you do it correctly.

Well, you can call this a public service blog post. I’m here to shatter the conspiracy of misinformation.

IT HURTS LIKE A RAW BASTARD.

My first pet name for Finn was ‘Sharkattack!’. He may have had no teeth but could gnaw through my upper torso with his razor-sharp gums if I didn’t hold him back. I’m not sure why we bother with a bassinet when we could simply affix a silicone tit to the wall and sucker him onto it.

One week old

Also, it didn’t help that within 24 hours of Finn’s birth, I’d had at least five people man-handling my chest (not including baby-handling). These included the anaesthesiologist in the operating theatre – which I can only compare with a tax consultant reaching across his desk to grip you by the boob and give it a rare squeeze while discussing personal wealth and asset planning.

Although there was no doubting the passion, dedication and absolute conviction of the midwives and lactation consultants at Dunedin’s Queen Mary, they all offered conflicting counsel. I was variously advised to latch the baby by gripping him by the shoulders, neck and head (although not all at once). One suggested letting Finn latch himself – “Guiding him to the breast is a mechanical act. After all, you don’t see lambs being attached to a teat with a great big hand.”

She seemed unmoved when I pointed out that sheep weren’t equipped with hands.

One lactation consultant had transformed vagueness into an art form and stood by my bedside twitching and wincing as I practiced putting whichever hand it was somewhere and waiting until ooh- aah- the baby sort of oohaah- yes- no- that’s not right- um.

Here’s the low-down: unless you routinely engage in sex play relying heavily on nipple-clamps, chances are breastfeeding will hurt for the first few weeks. Frankly, I think it’s immensely disrespectful to women to pretend otherwise.

Instead of the relentlessly positive propaganda, I would like to have been trusted to make the right choice for Finn and me in the face of the horrifying truth. Despite the blood and shreds of tissue, I’ve always been aware how incredibly special it is to be able to nourish my baby.

Painfully aware, even.

And I’d rather have been prepared for it, rather than wondering whether there was something wrong with Finn and me.

Finn at five weeks. ONLY KIDDING ABOUT THE DOG TOWEL, PLUNKET NURSE!

Meet Finn

Foot

Dad gets to grips with his son

I am proud to introduce you to the newest member of our family.

Finn made his debut in the world on 5 January via my stomach, successfully evading a scalpel, suction hose and over-enthusiastic anesthesiologist.

Finn at roughly three hours old

Despite watching the ‘Mutant Babies’ DVD, I wasn’t prepared for the dubious first impression. Fin looked a bit like E.T. mated with a frog. In my defense, it didn’t help that he was blue and covered in goo. Judging by his outraged roars, Finn was equally unimpressed with us.

During the months he spent camped out in my uterus, I had formed an impression of what my child would be like. Finn was completely different; yet within 24 hours I couldn’t imagine any alternative to his reality.

Bugaboo

Finn at two days old, dressed in driving gears for his first car-trip

I always thought Andrew’s genes would spank mine into submission and I was right. Finn has huge, dark blue eyes which I’m pretty sure will eventually be brown; fat little cheeks; and a wide mouth. I’m also grateful he inherited Andrew’s nose, rather than my prominent proboscis. However, since he wees and/or poops on me during every change, all indications suggest he has his mother’s sense of humour.

He also takes after his father in temperament. So far, Finn has been a total joy – placid and laid-back. Some people have been kind enough to suggest this is due to my parenting skills, but since said skills are largely limited to not getting his head stuck in drains, I’m pretty sure it’s mostly his personality.

He also smells delicious.

The last few weeks have been a blur, time blending into itself. I couldn’t tell you whether it’s morning or evening, and I have – at best – a one in seven chance of identifying what day of the week it is.

I’m not sure how someone who weighs less than 3kg and sleeps so much has had such a profound effect on our lives, yet everything has changed utterly. The other day I was straightening my hair and thought, “What is the point of this? I mean . . . just . . . WHAT is the POINT?” (The self-doubt may have been due to doing my hair while loading the washing machine between spoonfuls of muesli.)

Also, I can’t believe how much laundry Finn generates. I normally run a load during the red-eye feed at 03:00hrs.

But mainly, I love my son with a ferocity and compulsion to hold him safe, for which I was completely unprepared. I would totally kill for my child if serving double-life for manslaughter weren’t ultimately detrimental to his upbringing. My feelings are so intense I am often required to under-compensate with lame jokes like how I previously thought it impossible to love somebody with a hairline that started at his eyebrows.

I’m delighted motherhood has added new depths to my shallowness.

Although the first couple of weeks have been fairly brutal, I can honestly say I’ve cherished every moment.

Well.

Most moments.

Not so much the time, early in the morning, when Finn cried and in my sleep-deprived state I thought Andrew had picked him up and handed him to me but I couldn’t find him. Andrew woke me as I plucked desperately at the bedclothes, wailing “MY BABY! MY BABY! WHERE’S MY BAAABYYY?”

There are also plenty of occasions I’m in tears, usually after I’ve been mean to my mum (who’s doing a first-class job keeping house) or because I’m exhausted. But mainly when I look down at my son and cry because I am so incredibly, unbelievably fortunate and lucky enough to know it.

Little frog

How to take money from a single mother on the dole

The day before the parents arrived, Her Goatiness came around to polish our windows. The day before THAT, she and Florrie weeded our garden.

Just before we set off for Christchurch to collect the parents, Husband broke the vacuum cleaner when he threw it down the stairs (he said he didn’t mean to, but I’m not sure what outcome he expected from balancing it on a top step and then tugging vigorously on the power cord. Alternatively, he has yet to master the concept of gravity). I put in an emergency call and Her Goatiness hoovered the place while we were gone. I suspect she might also have mopped the bathroom floor.

We borrowed The Outlaws’ Audi Q8 for the trip to Christchurch (Her Goatiness cleaned and washed the car before we picked it up).

(My mother in law makes it REALLY difficult to bitch about her.)

The previous week, I’d bought two foam mattresses on Trademe for collection in Christchurch.

“Niamhie, how are we going to fit your parents’ luggage in the car along with two foam mattresses?” asked Andrew.

“They’re FOAM!” I explained. “Bendy. We can FOLD them. Wedge the bags on top.”

However, when Andrew maneuvered the mattresses into the boot of the car, I couldn’t see out the rear view mirror.

Unfortunately – shortly after the mattress purchase – I’d also bought a baby change table.

“It’s a big car!” I said. “Huge! You’re telling me we can’t fit two single extremely bendy foam mattresses, a change table, my parents’ bags, their golf clubs, a box of baby stuff and my parents in the boot?”

“Pretty much.”

“We could bring the trailer-”

“No.”

“Well, on your head be it.”

I can’t believe he let me win the argument with such a cliché. I don’t even know what it MEANS – or, for that matter, what Andrew’s head has to do with arranging foam.

I’d been looking for a Childcare brand change table on Trademe for some time. The starting bid was only $10; however, the auction closed two days after our trip to Christchurch so I opted to buy now at $40 after checking we could pick it up on the Monday.

There was a box of crap on the doorstep of the given address and a decapitated garden gnome in the entranceway corner. When the trader opened the door, I had to fight an overwhelming urge to bolt back to the car screaming, “CONTAMINATED ZONE!” and seal all the doors.

Really, I should learn to trust my intuition.

The house was littered with junk: overturned chairs, broken speakers, shredded boxes of Special K, dead animals. Well, I didn’t see any carcasses, but I wouldn’t have been AT ALL SURPRISED.

The trader was a young woman who was perfectly pleasant and indeed, I thought, rather lovely – apart from exhibiting a gigantic gaping gulch of committed bum crack. She was also wearing a sinister woolen beanie that failed to conceal the fact that her hair needed an urgent appointment with a bottle of shampoo – or a sodium hydroxide based cleaning agent.

Then she brought out the change table.

She excavated it from under an unidentifiable swatch of crusty material and other assorted landfill.

It was absolutely, unbelievably, skin-clawingly filthy. I mean, it couldn’t have been any dirtier had it been stored in a bat cave and Philip Roth wrote a novel about it.

This was probably when I should have made some socially acceptable excuse e.g. “Sorry, I didn’t realize it was made of, er, plastic”, instead of the truth i.e. “I can’t- it’s just- I mean- ew- words- not coming,” then returned the $40 to my back pocket instead of handing it over.

“Oh, I suppose I should maybe have wiped it with a cloth,” she said as Andrew dismantled the table in the drive.

More appropriately, she should MAYBE have water-blasted it.

Back in the car, “I want to wash my hands,” said Andrew, holding the steering wheel as if afraid his fingers might stick to it. “I don’t think this was one of your better Trademe purchases, Niamhie.”

“I know,” I winced. “But I’ll scrub it down and it’ll probably clean up fine-”

“Did you see her teeth?” he asked with a delicate shudder.

“No- what about her teeth?”

“Gak!”

“Oh no! If I’d noticed her teeth, I’d NEVER have gone through with it!”

It was just as well the airline left a portion of the parents’ luggage in Sydney – a box containing two pictures and a little wooden chair my father made for me when I was a child. As it was, Mum and I sat in the back of the car with suitcases stacked between us.

Back at home, when Andrew brought the change table up from the car, I noticed one of the wheels was broken and the lower tray inexpertly glued in one corner – neither of which were mentioned in the Trademe description. Perhaps I could have got over that with some aromatherapy and deep relaxation techniques, but my feelings only intensified after an hour spent scouring the change table in the bath, then disinfecting it, then disinfecting the bath, then burning my clothes and disinfecting myself.

Had the trader lived nearby, I wouldn’t even have attempted to clean the table. I would have towed it back down the road, dumped it in her front garden, and asked for my money back from within the confines of a sealed hazmat suit.

“You didn’t!” breathed Andrew in horror, his social sense of etiquette completely violated, when I told him I’d rung her and negotiated a refund of $20.

“I bloody did,” I said, grimly. “That table was a disgrace- I would be pure MORTIFIED to sell something in that sort of condition (mainly in case someone like me blogged about it, but)- her Trademe listing stated, ‘in good condition, and clean’- which was a total misrepresentation- she must have been fucking HALLUCINATING at the time- hey- anyway- YOU’RE the one storming around griping about how we got ripped off-”

“Yes, but, the time to do something about it would have been when we picked it up-”

“Well, I didn’t notice you thumping the roof of the Audi complaining about the state of it-”

“You realize this poor woman is probably on the dole-”

“That’s no excuse for living in a tip! If she cleared out all the crap in her front room and put in some grass and kept a fucking SHEEP, it would be about a hundred times cleaner not to mention more hygienic-”

“She’s probably a single mother on the dole, and you roll up in your Audi Q8-”

“It’s not my- whose bloody side are you on anyway-”

“With your little high-heels and your hair-”

“What the-”

“And quibble about $20! She probably won’t be able to feed her son for a week-”

“THAT’S NO EXCUSE! SHE SHOULD HAVE BEEN PAYING ME TO DISPOSE OF THE THING! IT’S THE PRINCIPLE OF IT!”

Niamh Meister-Leifburger

Before we married, Andrew and I agreed he would wear his wedding ring for a minimum of 6 months.

In return, I would take his surname.

Well, it wasn’t written into the marriage vows – and anyway, Andrew only wore his wedding ring for 3 months. ALSO, my ulterior motive for the request was the expectation that the band would become an extension of his finger. In the event he was involved in a terrible accident resulting in severe arm trauma and his left hand swelling alarmingly, he’d fight off the doctor advancing with motorised cutters, deliriously screaming, “Get away from my ring! You’re not having it!”

Since that situation never came to pass, it seems pretty clear to me it constitutes a breach of said agreement rendering it null and void.

However, over eight years after the happy day when we yoked ourselves to each other till death or a misunderstanding involving a transsexual called Clarabelle and secret offshore bank account do us part, I applied for a new passport.

In fairness, I always intended to change my name. One reason I didn’t was because Andrew and I thought we might be able to engage in dodgy tax fraud that somehow turns out to be legal if I were still Shaw (in retrospect, I’m not sure how we envisioned that working). Another is I never got around to it. And finally, I wasn’t gestating a crotchfruit. If The Asset weren’t imminent early in the New Year, I would have waited until my passport expired in August 2012 before I became Niamh Meister-Leifburger or whatever Andrew’s surname is. I suppose I should really look that up.

Last time I renewed my passport, all that was required was a call to the Irish Consulate asking them to make out a passport in the name of Niamh Shaw, thanks a million.

THINGS HAVE INDEED CHANGED.

Three months ago, upon my request, the Consulate General of Ireland sent me a passport application form. I knew it was for an Irish passport because, hilariously, it included an information pamphlet on how NOT to take a passport photo, with pictures of random people wearing clown noses and sticking their faces up against windows etc.

To issue a passport in my married name, I had to submit our original marriage certificate (The Consulate General of Ireland evidently doesn’t trust Notary Publics) – and my original birth certificate to verify my maiden name. If I wanted my original documents returned – along with the new passport – I had to include a self-addressed sign-on-delivery courier bag. Rather makes you wonder what the $160 fee was for – for which the only accepted payment was a bankers’ cheque.

The passport photos – four according to the application form, although the supplementary documentation stated two – had to be confirmed as a true likeness of the applicant by an authority figure, e.g. a policeman or, you know, librarian.

I have no idea what the big deal is about getting a passport. I mean, they’re not exactly rare. Pretty much everybody has one.

Anyhoo. It took a while to put the application together. Andrew took some photos and I selected the image which looked least like I was contemplating assassinating John Key. After spending an hour on MS Paint arranging it in a collage, I took it to the pharmacy to get it printed.

Then I went to the police station.

“I’m looking for someone with the appropriate authority,” I announced at reception, spreading the forms across the counter.

“Well,” said the personable Jason, “you’ve come to the right place, ma’am.”

He was required to write the application form’s unique reference number on the back of two of the passport photos, and sign them.

“Do you have a black pen?” I asked. “Because it says on the form you need to use a black pen. Oh, and if you can find a pair of scissors- no, wait. I have some here in my bag.”

“What else do you have in the bag?” he asked, suspiciously eyeing me snipping up photos.

“Nothing I wish to disclose, thanks.”

Jason got so carried away by the power vested in him that he signed all nine of my passport photos.

“Don’t want you coming back,” he said.

“Oh, come on. Are you trying to tell me I’m the dodgiest character you’ve seen all week?”

“Don’t know. You might have a bomb strapped to your waist.”

“No, no; it’s a foetus I swear.”

Policemen are MUCH more fun than Customs Officials. Except, I suppose, when they’re trying to get you to breathe into the nozzle.

Off I went to NZ Post to mail the application – which was where/when I found I’d forgotten my original passport.

Back at home, Andrew pointed out another problem.

I’m not even sure how to coherently relate this. Ok, so. Look. *sigh!* You see. On the form was a box for my signature. And I kind of panicked and put the wrong one. Well obviously it was my signature – I mean, I wrote it – only it didn’t look like it usually does. It’s like I had a fleeting personality change halfway through signing, resulting in a squirmy bit in the middle. I think I was intimidated by the stringent instruction to keep within the lines of the box, which was WAY too small to adequately express my personality.

In any case, after I had written my signature – outside the box, with a wobble in the middle – I realized it was supposed to have been witnessed by an authority figure.

So before going to the police station, I Tippexed it out.

It almost looked like I hadn’t touched it at all.

Jason hadn’t noticed anyway.

But THEN I got home and made the mistake of saying to Andrew, “Do you think it matters my signature’s blue?”

And he said, “No, but the TIPPEX MIGHT BE A PROBLEM.”

Seriously, I don’t know why I bother talking to him. It always ends in tears.

Since you can’t download the application form off the Internet, I sent off to the Consulate General of Ireland for another. Then I printed more passport photos and returned to the police.

I wasn’t looking forward to explaining The Tippex Affair to Jason – or persuading him I wasn’t stalking him. Apart from exceptional circumstances I’m not really into that and anyway, to be honest, I prefer firemen.

Thankfully Jason was off giving out speeding tickets, so I got Angela. She was evidently more clued in than Jason since she actually asked to see my ID. Although I’m glad I didn’t get her the first time around, because no doubt Angela would have detected Tippex.

However, when she went to stamp the back of my passport photo it rolled up into the stamp and, when she finally prised it out, my face was covered in blue ink.

The information pamphlet on how not to take a passport photo hadn’t mentioned anything about not having a blue face, so I licked it a bit and scrubbed it with a tissue from up Angela’s sleeve. I sent it off, even though I still looked like one of my recent ancestors was a full-blooded Smurf.

Two days later, the Consulate General of Ireland called to say our marriage certificate isn’t valid.

Top of Trotters Gorge

Finally got around to uploading the pics from Trotter’s Gorge last Saturday. We only got two because the camera sprang a leak.

 

This is me, after climbing to the top of Trotters Gorge. In many ways, the photo is deceptive. As I recall, my face was throbbing red; also, that shirt evidently covers a multitude of sins. One of them being an eight month old foetus. Which is really more a misdemeanor

 

Places of interest.

Killjoy Funsucker III

In the face of overwhelming and largely irrefutable evidence, I’m reluctantly resigned to increasing exhaustion and immobility.

I’m not sure why this comes as a shock. Perhaps because I subscribe to the ‘I’m-pregnant-not-suffering-from-some-chronic-debilitating-disease-symptoms-of-which-include-acute-belching’ school of thought.

Inspired by my mum – who, when pregnant with me, played squash up to her eighth month (which, if you consider the number of times I must have violently head-butted her cervix, may serve to explain much) – and my obstetrician in Blenheim – who ran a triathlon at 36 weeks pregnant at the age of 42 (which, because she was my doctor, I prefer to think of as admirable rather than CERTIFIABLY NUTCRACKERS INSANE) – I imagined I’d still be rock-climbing and shark-wrestling well into my third trimester and practicing extreme karate-kicks with my midwife between contractions.

Therefore, I’m fairly sullen about squaring up to reality. This unhappy station includes having to adopt the recovery position for several hours after a round trip to Dunedin, and being incapable of trundling the dog around the Oamaru Public Gardens without collapsing onto every single park bench for the purpose of puffing.

The situation has been aggravated by my recent erratic sleep patterns. In our antenatal class, while the other prospective mothers complained about sleep deprivation, I merely smiled mysteriously (or more likely unbearably smugly). Because until recently, I slept like a hibernating bear with the chromosomes of Rip Van Winkle. (Did you know a tompion is a pellet of mud and saliva that a bear inserts up his anus before hibernating for the winter so that ants won’t crawl in? The word originates from the French ‘tampon’ and can also be used to describe a plug placed in a gun’s muzzle while not in use to keep out dust and moisture. In case you were wondering, neither application has anything whatsoever to do with my REM quality.)

I’m not sure when it started, but I find it just about impossible getting comfortable in bed. Lying on The Asset’s head used to work, but when I try that trick now he kicks my lungs into my oesophagus. It’s been hella hot in the last couple of weeks, which hasn’t helped. Also, my bladder’s holding capacity appears to have shrunk to that of a beetle, resulting in at least two nocturnal bathroom forays. Previously, I’d return from a bathroom run thinking, ‘Beh I’ll NEVER get back to sleep *huff*!’ and three seconds later I’d wake up in the morning. Now – perhaps in preparation for parenthood – I like to prove myself right.

I’ve also adopted a startling grunt. I emit this grim, guttural expectoration when I sit, stand, ascend stairs, pull weeds, throw Jed’s frisbee, open doors . . . in fact, any action other than lying in a perfectly still, prone position. I would grunt rolling over in bed, except that the action is beyond my current skill-range.

Anyhoo.

Yesterday Andrew and I had planned A Great Adventure.

To be accurate, I planned it and Killjoy Funsucker III failed to talk me out of it.

We drove south and turned west into Trotter’s Gorge where we stopped for a bush-walk. The sign in the carpark estimated the Loop Track at 1.5 hours. It didn’t mention most of it was uphill, which added a striking new depth of flavour to my grunt echoing joyfully around the woody hills.

Back at the carpark, we enjoyed our first swim of the summer in the nearby stream i.e. we crouched in three inches of water seeing who could shriek louder.

We carried on, stopping for a picnic just over Dansey’s Pass: soda bread with great slabs of cheddar cheese, date scones, apples and mince pies.

Last night, I slept like a dead squirrel.

Kitchen update

Some more photos of the house and remodelled kitchen:-

This is another pic of the front of Wild Rose House. It's quite difficult to get a shot of the entire house because most of it is hidden by foliage

 At the moment, we use the side door to enter and exit the house. This is the view of the front of the house, from near the garages. Ultimately, we would like to make a clear accessway from the bottom of the garden and make this the main entrance.

The kitchen entrance after the pantry/fridge swap. Please note Andrew's light switch beside the kitchen entrance. It still works, which is a bonus.

 

Since the kitchen opens directly onto the living room, I wanted to paint it bright white to reflect as much light as possible. Even Andrew admits it's a vast improvement - although I'm still convinced it emits a green glow when my defences are low. Andrew says I'm paranoid

Quinary consideration

Shortly after we settled into Wild Rose House – i.e. as soon as we had the coffee machine unpacked – we compiled a list of things to fix or alter. We categorized items as short, medium and long-term projects, further subdivided into price of raw materials. Although generally anything costing more than – ooh, $100 – was deep-filed.

Wild Rose House

Before the weekend, in what’s becoming a family ritual, Husband and I sat in our bay-window for a ten minute infusion of Vitamin D and caffeine and decided to review our short-term list.

Miraculously, it seemed to have tripled despite copious reallocation of items to the medium and long-term lists.

“Ok look,” I said, “could we maybe focus on one thing and just . . . finish it? Because I know we’ve been busy doing stuff, but it feels like we’re churning.”

So I suppose it’s my fault we agreed to swap the kitchen pantry and fridge over the weekend.

Now, you might think- but no. Before you prepare for that mental leap, you’re probably wondering why swapping the fridge with a cupboard even makes The List, never mind its top priority assignment.

The main reason was that the only available space for the fridge was in the kitchen entranceway. Not only did this block much of our precious sunlight into the living room, but you had to walk around the fridge to get into the kitchen. Although ideal for hiding behind in the event a masked terrorist crashed through the door spraying automatic machine-gun fire, we figured the likelihood of that occurring in Oamaru was negligible.

From the living room: the fridge in the kitchen entrance. The microwave normally sits on top of the fridge

A secondary – even quinary – barely-even-qualifying-as-a-consideration, was Andrew’s irrational hostility towards my eclectic collection of fridge magnets on proud display. These include plaques printed with Hallmark sentiments, furry picture frames, various animals, and my magnetic poetry arranged in crude rather than creative expression.

I hope that addresses your question.

NOW you might think this operation – the swapping of pantry and fridge – sounds straightforward. And I grant you: on the surface, it does.

However, there were complications. The pantry was as deep as the fridge so Andrew had to saw it in half lengthways to justify the swap. It was also fitted – which suggested the wall behind the pantry was unpainted. As it turned out, the alcove housing the pantry was not even lined with plasterboard.

Naturally, the fridge was about 1cm wider than the pantry and wouldn’t quite fit into the vacated slot. Andrew suggested making room by ripping out the thin cupboard next to the oven, but I jealously covet all storage space. In any case, where else am I going to put my sandwich tray in the shape of a pig? However, Andrew reckoned he could saw a centimeter off the bench/cupboard on the far side of the oven and shove the entire arrangement across.

Yet another issue was an inconvenient absence of power point(s) adjacent to the pantry alcove into which we could plug the fridge. Andrew proposed putting in a power point, and – since he was feeling all electrical – he’d add another couple of sockets to the main bench area. And sure, while he was at it, he’d move the light switch.

I’d like to point out here that the location of the light switch – in the middle of the wall beneath the overhead cupboards – didn’t bother me. I’ve always considered myself quite fussy – secretly prided myself on it, to be honest – but in certain areas I’m pedestrianly low-maintenance. Granted, it took me a while to actually FIND the light switch but when I did, I just thought, “Oh right, THAT’S where it is”. Then I accepted it. Adjusted. I mean to say: it’s a LIGHT SWITCH. As long as it a) works; and b) remains pleasingly simple to operate, I’m happy as.

But when he saw it Andrew said, “Who’d put a light switch there? Stupid. That’s going to annoy me.”

He became borderline obsessive. Whenever he was required to operate it, he’d announce: “This light switch really annoys me”.

It got to the stage where he’d go, “This light switch-”

And I’d say, “Wait! Let me guess. It annoys you?”

“It REALLY annoys me. I’m not sure you fully grasp quite how annoying it is-”

“OH I’M STARTING TO GAIN SOME APPRECIATION OF THAT.”

In summary, he decided to move the switch to where grand design intended light switches to be: beside the entrance.

Essentially rewiring the entire kitchen necessitated knocking a few holes in the wall – which had to be boarded up and/or plastered, sanded and painted.

Kitchen wall after Andrew attacked it and poked experimentally at electrical wires

“You know, there’s no point buying paint to touch up a few holes,” said Andrew. “We might as well do the whole kitchen while we’re at it.”

In fact, painting the kitchen was another task on our short-list, since it was a shade that would most aptly be titled ‘Green Goblin’s ghastly revenge’. If the photos don’t communicate the pure grisliness of it, you’ll have to take my word that it gave off a nuclear energy.

Study of dust and debris

That, in a nutshell, was our mission for the weekend.

Have I forgotten anything?

I don’t think so.

“Sounds like more than two days’ work,” I said dubiously.

“Nah. We’ll have it finished by Saturday night,” Andrew confidently predicted.

At our antenatal appointment Thursday morning, I told our midwife: “He’s making me paint the kitchen this weekend.”

“Well, take it easy,” said Jen. “And no climbing ladders.”

“We don’t have a ladder,” said Andrew. “She’ll have to stand on a box.”

“I didn’t think pregnant women were supposed to paint?” I said, hopefully.

“You’ll be fine,” said Jen. “Just make sure the area is well ventilated.”

I can’t understand how my midwife has no problem with my snorting toxic fumes, yet tells me off for wearing high-heels.

(I suspect it’s because she wears crushed velvet and Birkenstocks. Also, I think she’s a Wiccan.)

(And while I’m on the topic, I find it COMPLETELY IRRESPONSIBLE that my midwife is the ONLY care provider who has given out to me for wearing heels during my pregnancy.)

It took most of the weekend to shift bench tops and rewire, patch, plaster and sand the kitchen. Between us we sugar-soaped the walls; then cut-in and rollered – twice. We also managed to paint the bay-window seat (three coats) and I sugar-soaped and painted the bathroom edges.

We’ve ticked two items off the short-list.

Shock value: high

For months – years, even – the only thing we’ve been required to schedule are mealtimes. Although the thought of missing lunch fills me with a chill, clammy dread, in this instance my stomach is more reliable than a Swiss-precision timepiece.

However, I doubted I could rely on hunger to remind me of our first ante-natal class three weeks ago, so I made an entry in my diary along with a note the day before; and set two reminders on my phone supplemented with alarms.

OF COURSE I forgot. Early that afternoon, I brought the dog for a walk along Kakanui Beach and, after he swallowed most of the sea, some starfish and a piece of driftwood, Jed’s arse was a danger-zone. I didn’t want to drive back to Oamaru immediately in case he pebble-dashed the interior of the car, so I sat a while on the tailgate waiting for Jed to get it out of his system. I was reading an article on the importance of mulching and I’m not sure what nature of mental leap made me think, ‘THE ANTE-NATAL CLASS FUUUCK!’

I flung Jed and his volatile backside in the boot and stormed back into town. As I charged into the house, I roared up the stairs to Andrew, “The thingy! Class! The ante-natal class! It’s today! In fifteen minutes!” Whereupon we wasted a large portion of that time bumping into each other and swearing, until I leaped into the shower.

By 17:55, I was standing by the door waiting for Andrew, who was putting away some screwdrivers. Or whatever.

(In fact, we haven’t missed any of the classes so far – although not for want of trying.)

Naturally, we were the last couple to arrive, which meant we got the hard chairs. The other attendees were arrayed on an eclectic selection of furniture: a leaning lazy-boy, a sagging sofa, two pouffes with backs, and a number of hard chairs with no arms. The walls were decorated with some laminated posters depicting cross-sections of pregnant torsos and/or gimungous mammaries. While the prospective mothers sat around expectantly, the men sat and fidgeted and avoided eye-contact – or looking at the pictures.

I was immediately distracted by two plates of biscuits on the table – which basically meant I couldn’t concentrate on anything said during the first hour of the session.

I can only consider myself lucky, judging by the material presented in the remaining classes (six so far). Although I’m about twice as old as every other prospective mother there, I’m invariably the one slumped in her chair giggling helplessly whenever the instructor says ‘vagina’.

During a debrief the morning after the first class, still vaguely traumatised, I said to Andrew, “So we spend our entire lives trying to avoid saying the words ‘nipple’, ‘breast’, ‘penis’ or ‘perineum’ in polite company, and suddenly the conversation gets all pelvis-centric . . . and we’re expected not to laugh?

“Well, yes.”

“Oh my god, I am WAY too immature to have a baby.”

“Um-”

“So be honest: when the instructor lay on her back on the floor with her legs in the air like Invasion of the Giant Alien Beetles, did you not choke back a chortle?”

“Not especially. No!”

“I see. How about when she drew two dots on the whiteboard and said, ‘This is the vagina and this is the anus’. Seriously: are you trying to tell me you didn’t feel even remotely like sniggering?”

“Ok, maybe just a little bit.”

Here’s the thing: when I drop the word ‘vagina’ into a conversation I’m aiming to shock – which, you’ll no doubt agree, is understandable; even worthy in select circumstances – but when Sandra the instructor does it she’s in ABSOLUTE EARNEST.

Frankly, it’s freaky.

Also, just plain wrong.

Sometimes Sandra kicks off the class by asking, “Right! Who’s been practicing their perineal massage?” and, while I’m busy trying to hide under my chair, some of the girls actually RAISE THEIR HANDS.

I should be marginally more resolute after being subjected to a barrage of horrifying birthing videos featuring a plethora of fanny flaps. Particularly noteworthy was the very first video, with footage of a woman’s waters breaking. The slow-mo was a nice touch.

By far the most disgusting, appalling birthing video was that featuring the mother with hairy armpits. I mean: if you know you’re going to be on camera, surely you’d make an effort to shave your pits? At times it was hard to tell which was her head, the baby’s head or her armpits. There’s simply no excuse for that degree of hirsute.

As far as I’m concerned, whoever goes on about the beauty and miracle of birth has obviously not observed one: the mucous, the sweat, the blood, the throbbing neck-veins, the labouring women trying to rip their husbands’ heads off with their bare hands.

Actually, I don’t see why I have to be pre-informed in graphic detail about what’s going on down there. It’s not as if I’ll SEE it; and anyway, I’ll be preoccupied wondering how to rip Andrew’s head off with my bare hands. And I hardly need persuading via visual evidence that pushing a fully-formed human being out the vaj will likely sting a bit.

Just to mix it up, Sandra showed us a video that wasn’t called ‘Mutant Babies’, but could have been. Instead, it was titled ‘What Newborns Look Like’. Bless her, the new mother made every effort to look thrilled with her purple, mustachioed baby, but she was obviously dejected. There followed a gallery of newborns with giant gentalia, cone-heads, bruised foreheads, rampant zits, club feet, and one that looked like Mussolini.

And then there are the practicals. During the first class, Sandra lectured us on the importance of pelvic floor exercises, demonstrating the pressure a baby’s head exerts on the perineum with a sack of salt. Then she had us all practice pelvic floor exercises. Thankfully, she didn’t check to see we were doing it right. I was very proud of Andrew who really put his back passage into the exercise – I could actually see him clenching. Also, his gums turned white.

Thank goodness there are only two more classes to go – I just- I don’t think I can take much more

The Great Udder Cake

I’d been waiting for an excuse to make coffee cloud cake. The batter is made by alternately folding stringently sifted flour, espresso and walnuts into a light, fluffy meringue-like base. After baking, the whole is smothered in lush coffee icing.

Now, you might think: WHO NEEDS AN EXCUSE? If you’re not preoccupied thinking NOM NOM NOM.

Indeed, it’s a valid question. But it seemed clear to me that justifying decadence on this epic scale required an Occasion.

Finally Her Goatiness asked me to bake a cake.

Actually, she asked me to stop off at the supermarket and pick up one of the generic sponge cakes that taste like reconstituted carpet and look like an Easter Bunny threw up on it.

However, she asked early enough that I could tell she really wanted me to make one. Also, it was a special occasion: the day after Old Tom’s birthday.

Generally speaking, the anniversary of Old Tom’s debut appearance would constitute The Occasion, except that The Outlaws forgot. When Old Tom called around to have Happy Birthday sung tunelessly to him, Agent of Death was down the milking shed and Her Goatiness wouldn’t let Old Tom watch Worst Teenage Bodies on telly because she wanted to see Downton Abbey.

In the scheme of things, the Guilt Cake is more important than the Birthday Cake. As well as the message, ‘We’re pleased you’re still alive’, it must also convey an apology with some degree of sincerity. As far as I was concerned, the only way to salvage Old Tom’s relationship with The Outlaws was via home baking.

(Also I’m not about to eat supermarket cake.)

Until recently, I’ve been a fan of the one-bowl school of baking. In fact, I’ve never understood why you can’t just fling the ingredients directly into the tin and bung it straight in the oven. But lately, I’ve been foraying into frosting: cinnamon tea cakes with toasted coconut topping, sponge cakes with jam and cream, miracles with chocolate icing and a cherry on top.

I evicted the spiders from the cake pans and preheated the oven and beat eggs and sifted and folded. I think you can estimate how the final product will taste from how much you want to lick the batter. In the case of the coffee cloud cake, I nearly got my head stuck in the mixing bowl and was picking batter out of my hair for the next two days.

The cakes smelled glorious. They looked even better. After they cooled, I leveled the tops, stacked them and slathered the whole with icing.

Coffee cloud cake - optimal profile

I pressed toasted walnuts into the side and cherishingly transferred the cake to a plate. It was only then that I spotted the leftover cake on the cooker hob, and realized . . . I’d forgotten the third layer. It was supposed to be a three-layer cake.

It was just as well, because not only had I run out of icing, but . . . well . . . from certain angles . . . the cake . . . it featured something of an aggressive LEAN. No matter how much I prodded and swore at it, the top layer slumped drunkenly off to one side.

Stop that cake! It's getting away!

However, valuable lessons were learned from the experience.

And without the coffee cloud cake, there might never have been the udder cake.

Last week I was tasked with making a birthday cake for Her Goatiness. The spec was a cake descriptive of a goat’s udder.

Nobody said it had to be three-dimensional, but Her Goatiness is notoriously hard to please. There was high likelihood of her spurning a two-dimensional cake and refusing to blow out the candles.

Andrew obsessively tracked the progress of the cake assembly with a kind of morbid fascination. Given my mother-in-law’s partiality for pus, I was keen to garnish the teats with yellow icing but Andrew said, “Niamhie, you can’t make a cake with MASTITIS.”

No vision.

It took me most of the morning to make a plain 20cm square butter cake and two 20cm round chocolate sponge cakes. I took a break for lunch.

“How’s it going?” asked Andrew. “Have you looked at pictures of goat’s udders?”

“Pictures!” I snorted. “I don’t need PICTURES. Don’t you think I’ve seen enough fucking goat’s udders to know what they look like?”

“Hmm,” said Husband reflectively. “Ok. How many teats do they have?”

“FOUR OF COURSE!” I shouted. “What sort of fucking question is- I’m not some nuffnuff, you know!”

Although obviously an awkward and disagreeable conversation, I was ultimately pleased it occurred. A little disagreement adds spice to a relationship. It fostered greater understanding between us. Also, Her Goatiness’ udder cake would otherwise have sported four teats instead of.

Er.

Two.

As per the standard configuration.

Thereafter, I consulted pictures on Google images and drew an elevation of the udder before starting the sponge-carving.

I stuck the cakes together with jam to discourage independent roaming. Then, with input from Andrew’s gag-reflex, I made up a vat of revolting pink butter icing. From my experience with coffee cloud cake, I knew butter icing was tricky, collecting crumbs and preferring to stick to the spatula rather than the cake. Thankfully, I’d read an article which suggested dipping the spatula periodically in a jug of boiling water and thereby encouraging the icing to slide off.

It’s probably fair to say Her Goatiness had never seen a cake quite like it. Nor anybody else, for that matter.

Goat udder cake

Not forgetting National Velvet

So far, the biggest challenge about the new house – if you ignore, for the moment, the virulent foliage – has been learning to operate the woodburning stove.

Thus far, a woodburner has been an impossible, unattainable dream – much like owning a horse. I always wanted a horse so I could achieve that perfect accord between woman and beast. I mean, perfect accord with my dog basically equates to being permanently covered in slobber and earwax; whereas with a horse it’d be all gorgeous naturally highlighted hair and perfect, even, vaguely though not obscenely fluorescent teeth. And I haven’t even got onto the whips and leather boots and thighs that could crack a hazelnut with two decisive paces.

Anyway. I was naturally thrilled to finally have free access to a woodburner.

After a couple of days sitting around the living room admiring it, Husband and I decided to fire it up. Husband went to the shed and returned with a couple of logs and a stick.

“So . . . how do you do it?” I asked.

“Man. Make Fire!” said Husband confidently.

I had no reason to doubt him. After all, man’s ability to conflagrate is innate, like navigating by the stars or farting Bon Jovi melodies in the lower ranges. Humans have made fire since dinosaurs were the preferred mode of transport – and these days, we have matches.

Also, if Andrew were a superhero, his totally awesome superpowers (because I’m sure he’d have a selection rather than just the one) would DEFINITELY involve some combination of combustibles e.g. flame throwing, giant sparks, deadly fumes, and a backdraft that would make a random cross-section of spectators gasp in wonder. And the logo on his tight, shiny superhero costume would be fashioned of flames.

Duly, I waited to be impressed. Andrew stuffed some newspaper and the logs into the stove in a haphazard arrangement of what we subsequently learned is called ‘the teepee’ method.

Within seconds, an inferno blazed against the glass of the woodburner.

Minutes later, it was a heap of smouldering ash, rustling and collapsing on itself.

Undeterred – or perhaps more inspired by the cold snap – Husband adopted a new fire-starting technique. This involved lighting the kindling, then decisively flinging a gallon of diesel onto it.

Now, YOU KNOW I like to be supportive of my husband, but regrettably I couldn’t in good conscience endorse this methodology. I love the flirtatious, playful smell of diesel as much as the next person, but I’m pretty sure it’s not environmentally friendly and splashing flammable fluid around is hardly the sort of example we want to set our child.

Faced with the prospect of my dream fizzling out, I attempted to rekindle the dormant embers of information left over from Brownies. When that yielded no sparks, I read the Masport wood stove’s user manual cover to cover, and pretty much a degree course’s worth of Internet articles.

Look, if you can get a BA in Golf Course Management and Meteorology – which I’m convinced is only a short step up from predicting horoscopes – I’m sure there must be a degree in making fire. Here, if you have a spare week to kill and think you know everything about woodstoves, check out this site for instant disillusionment.

The most important thing I learned from my extensive research is the importance of using dry wood – which means we’re pretty much buggered, since I assume flash-drying wood with an oil heater rather defeats the purpose. Then I latched onto the theory that our grate was blocked with ash, so I cleaned it. ALL RIGHT I admit it: I made Andrew do it. This appeared to have little positive or even noticeable effect. In desperation, I became convinced that our flue (that’s modern terminology for a chimney) needed cleaning, but a call to the local chimney-sweep confirmed it had been serviced in April. So it may be blocked by a dead starling – but unlikely.

AND THEN I came across an ingenious, confounding proposal: the upside-down or ‘top-down’ method of fire-building. According to The Internet, the top-down fire lights every time; produces less smoke; and uses less wood than the traditional method in the same period. Furthermore, whereas the conventional fire requires constant maintenance, the top-down fire allegedly burns for 4-8 hours without attention.

Instead of starting with newspaper at the bottom and layering up with kindling, sticks and logs, the top-down fire involves packing the heaviest material on the bottom and piling lighter material on top, ending with newspaper. Then you stuff any gaps with conventional wisdom, and light it.

This is our version of a top-down fire. It didn't work but I had to give it a go because the newspaper knots at the top are called 'anna cracks' and how could any normal person possibly resist that?

After our first attempts at building a top-down fire failed I gave up because I have no resilience. But Andrew persevered with a modified version, which I call the ‘top-down-bottom-up-tee-hee-pee’ method. This is basically a small teepee arrangement atop two rows of closely stacked logs. Which appears to work a treat.

He’s really quite clever.

Or he might still be tossing a bucket of diesel on the kindling when I’m not looking.

The dog ate my blog post

I missed a post last week.

(Shh! I don’t think anyone noticed!)

Still, I feel the only polite thing to do under the circumstances is to offer up an excuse. Since I’ve used ‘the dog ate my blog post’ at least once, I’m kind of stuck. All my creativity appears to be channeled into gestating. At this rate, The Asset will be a work of art. Or a real piece of work. Maybe a bit of both? Whatever.

Also, we’re still full-on just over two weeks into our new home. I have been engaged in an orgy of scrubbing. I assure you, the word ‘orgy’ (please see previous sentence) was wittingly applied. My affair with cloth is obsessive, dirty, frenzied, exhausting and slightly lustful; all appropriately packaged in complex emotions like shame and guilt.

So far I’ve cleaned the kitchen.

Really quite thoroughly, you know.

Also, I could do with a shower.

I would have liked to have the entire house scoured by now, but there have been so many other critical items demanding our attention, including but not limited to: extensive rugby analysis; thinking up imaginative insults for Irish and South African referees; distracting our midwife from discussing ‘bonking’ and the more literal aspects of digestion; and spending hours attempting to train Fisher & Paykel’s customer relations representatives. I am also required to provide critical backup and support for Andrew’s stealth ops to Mitre 10.

And then there’s the garden. If you sit and stare at it, you can actually see the vegetation advancing on the house. It is – literally – a jungle out there. We may not be at risk of being attacked by tigers in our back yard, but currently the most efficient way of getting to the garage is swinging Tarzan-style on a vine from the front door.

Which has proved challenging at seven months pregnant.

Yesterday, armed with a trowel and sunhat, it took me five hours to clear an area roughly the size of a manhole cover. At the current rate of progress, the garden might be free of weeds by 2030. Alternatively, I could send Andrew out with a vat of Roundup; or we could just spend the money and tastefully concrete the entire section – which is the option I’m currently favouring.

Aerodynamically optimal

Three days into our new home and we’re still chaotic. Basically our life can be described in terms of boxes and litres of Jif cleaning fluid.

After the movers relocated the bulk of our possessions last Thursday week, we made one more trip to the container in Spring Creek with a last trailer-load. The container smelled like the gorilla pit at the zoo. Please note it featured this delicate bouquet long before we ever stuffed it with our belongings. I’m not sure whether it seemed more potent due to my enhanced sense of smell or it had actually once contained gorillas.

As Andrew unloaded, “I thought you were going to put your motorbike in the container,” I said. Although phrased as a statement, Andrew recognised it for the pointed question it was.

“Decided not to,” he said. “We’ll have PLENTY of room for it on the trailer.”

I may never learn to decode my husband’s unique blend of brooding pessimism and misplaced idealism.

Container on its way, we set to cleaning the house. I was anxious to leave it spick, since not only are the landlords our friends, but they handed over the house in such pristine condition. Unfortunately, I underestimated the time it would take, allied with how pregnant I am, not to mention pedantic. You might call it a trifecta of miscalculation.

I was still cleaning on Saturday morning, the day we were to drive to Oamaru. While Andrew loudly expressed his astonishment how much stuff was left to fit on the trailer, I desperately wiped down door handles. The end result was three rooms and two bathrooms that gleamed, with skirting boards that could have been declared contamination-free zones. Unfortunately, the living room windows were still smudged with dog snot . . . but at least I got the blood stains off the walls and scraped most of the viscera off the ceiling.

I drove the MR2 the first leg of the trip, while Andrew drove the Hilux Surf towing a trailer that looked precariously volatile but, he assured me, was both stable and aerodynamically optimal.

We swapped vehicles just south of Blenheim and I drove the Surf the rest of the way. Again, I’m not sure whether it was pregnancy or the fact that we haven’t defurred it in a while but sitting into the Surf’s driver seat was a nauseating experience.

We hit Christchurch at around 5pm, where we collected a cot, which posed a challenging logistical problem for Andrew.

In Rolleston, we stopped for a late lunch from BP. I had a gourmet vegetarian pie which, given how hungry I was, should have been a taste sensation. Instead it was rather horrid, tasting of burnt-curry with a strangely chewy texture. It was only after I’d finished it that I realised I’d also eaten most of the wrapping paper.

Poor Andrew had to work on Sunday but I took a day off. On Monday morning, the Spring Creek Container Yard notified me that our possessions had arrived. In a quality effort, Andrew and The Welsh Giant relocated everything to the new house by early afternoon, while I . . . cleaned.

God I hate the smell of Jif.

Pelvis-centric

Two days before the movers were due to arrive, we decided to call into the container yard at Spring Creek to check the security measures.

Alan, the manager of the container yard, who had taken my booking, was not available.

“I’ll show you the container, if you like,” said John, a man who operated in a strictly humour-free zone. Unless you counted his glasses, a pair of big, yellow-tinted square eyesores. I hope they were for visibility purposes rather than a fashion statement. Because that statement would be loud and pelvis-centric without any discernible excuse for it.“Let me get you a couple of high-viz vests. You need to wear them on the yard.”

“Oh no, no, that’s ok,” said Andrew. “We don’t need to-”

“No- I want a high-viz vest!” I said. “Hey! Do we have to wear hard hats too?”

Apparently we didn’t.

“When’s your container hired?” asked John as we fluorescently trooped over to the holding area.

“Thursday morning,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” said John. “I handle container bookings and we have nothing for Thursday.”

“Oh, Alan ASSURED me the container would be available on Thursday,” I said.

John’s face twitched with the effort of internalising an extreme eye-roll.

“How long did you book it for?”

“Alan said you guys were EXTREMELY flexible,” I said happily. “He said we could have it as long as we needed and just to let you know on an as-required basis. Alan- he was lovely- wasn’t he, honey? SO accommodating.”

“How much did he quote you?” asked John, increasingly dour.

“$1200.”

“And for transport?”

“Oh, that includes transport. And GST. Very reasonable, we thought.”

Evidently John thought so too. Perhaps the spectacles were corrective, to address eye-rolling.

Anyway, I don’t know what he was fussing about. Either there was a stash of containers around the corner, or John was extremely good at his job (although I can’t think there’s much to arranging containers; surely it’s just an adult version of building blocks?); in any case there was a container waiting for us at the yard on Thursday morning.

Back at home, “I still think I could have shifted our things in a couple of trailer loads,” muttered Andrew.

I might have to ask John about his spectacle prescription.

I could savage a slice of broccoli quiche

Judgement Day is inevitable.
– Terminator 3

Two days left before the move and I’m sitting in the living room surrounded by boxes, bubble wrap, sheets of cardboard and shreds of packing material. I can’t find anything except dust bunnies. Although thank goodness Husband still manages to locate a screwdriver or glue gun when he needs one. It’s a relief.

The only reason the sofa isn’t packed is that, in my current condition, getting out of a bean bag involves some applied input from Husband to achieve output and frankly he has enough to be getting along with.

Bless him: I have no idea where he finds the energy. In addition to working a full-time job, Andrew has wrapped, stacked and labelled anything not nailed to the floor; transferred it to the upper garage; finalized the house purchase; sold his boat; and yet has still faithfully watched all the All Black’s matches except the one against Canada and even I couldn’t see the point in that unless you were so bored the only alternative was clipping your own toenails.

I’m trying to keep pace with the boxing, but have slowed down a lot in the last couple of weeks – Andrew might say CONVENIENTLY. But really, at the moment, I can wrap about three plates and a coaster before I have to take a nap. Exhaustion seems to accompany spurts of activity from The Asset and for the last while he has been making really quite admirable efforts to kick me in the shins.

However, I did make a major contribution to proceedings by calling every packing company, moving business, freight specialists and guys with vans, trailers and/or wheelbarrows in New Zealand. The cheapest quote for a door-to-door move was $3000 + GST, but we could hire a container in Spring Creek and have it relocated by rail to Oamaru for around $1200 inclusive.

Originally, Andrew planned to ferry our stuff into Spring Creek on a trailer. I was concerned he had underestimated the volume of our possessions, while overestimating the capacity of Sherriff’s trailer (assuming Sherriff allowed us borrow it in the first place). But despite Andrew being more concerned about dust from the gravel road getting into his stereo system, he was undeterred.

This changed after he experienced some twangs out of his back – trying to extricate me from the nether regions of bean bags – and we decided to hire a local moving company to transfer our things from Port Underwood to Spring Creek.

Evidently this plan is imminently sensible as befitting our status-in-transition to responsible parents who file early tax returns; but I’m also optimistic the movers will be beefcake eye-candy with winning smiles and rippling muscles.

Past experience suggests they will more likely be exceedingly sweaty with rippling paunches.

Chances are they’ll also probably grunt inappropriately.

Terrifying wainscoting

Hindsight has imbued The Great House-Hunt with heroic and epic proportions. When realism catches up, I can acknowledge how quickly and relatively painlessly we acquired a house.

One of the most distressing things about the frequent trips to Oamaru (all two of them) – apart from the WWII documentaries over breakfast, the prolonged psychological exposure to RE Agents, the terrifying wainscoting, and the ever-present fear that it was all futile and we were going to end up homeless and I’d have to give birth under a bridge – was that The Rise of the Asset was completely overlooked.

Being fully gestational is so exciting that I resent any time not productively spent feeling incredibly blessed, excited and/or clever (honestly: being knocked up makes me feel like a GENIUS, despite all evidence to the contrary involving numerous teenagers demonstrating conclusively that it has more to do with stupidity and/or stunning quantities of alcohol). Although I feel satisfied in living a full complete life, pregnancy is undoubtedly the closest I’ve ever been to a genuine miracle.

During those trips to Oamaru, there were whole MINUTES where I completely forgot I was pregnant. Until I tried to leap over fences, or caught myself stealing food off other peoples’ plates, or assessing railway bridges for exposure to draughts. Which are generally not the aspects of pregnancy upon which I prefer to focus.

Now that we’re home – when we’re not dealing with lawyers, booking containers, performing extreme weeding, sourcing boxes, packing, and selling fishing boats – it’s all about The Asset again.

For a long time I hadn’t been sure whether what I felt was The Asset exploring the boundaries, or pickles negotiating the dangerous bends of my digestive system. But recently there’s been no doubt. I’ve sometimes wondered whether The Asset has a bouncy castle in there, or a squash racquet and ball. In fact, the little guy has been extremely active since the start of the Rugby World Cup. Coincidence? I think not. This is, after all, a Kiwi baby.

The other evening, I was sitting on the couch when the prodding got so extreme I wondered whether the effects might be visible to the naked eye. Although I felt a bit foolish – I’m just into the 24th week, which was surely way too early to visibly detect movement – I pulled up my sweater and stared intently at the Homewrecker.

Next thing, my whole belly did a Mexican wave.

“It was AMAZING!” I gabbled to Husband later. “Possibly the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen! It was like . . . like . . . like it’s ALIVE in there!”

“Er, Sweetie,” said Andrew gently, so as not to startle or alarm the pregnant lady. “It IS.”

Unfortunately, Husband has yet to witness the phenomenon. He’s too impatient to sit staring at the Homewrecker for longer than it takes to demand a cup of coffee; and The Asset refuses to perform on demand. Yet.

In any case, Andrew’s presence appears to have an incredibly soothing effect on his child.