Special Delivery #3

The Making of Mitchell - the hard bit.
About four years ago, I competed in a large, full-contact karate tournament. I was in a big room surrounded by many people, all yelling my name and encouraging me to keep going, to ignore the pain, to not give up and to really push myself. Suddenly in the Delivery Suite, I was again in a big room surrounded by a crowd of people yelling much the same stuff.

Only this was much harder.

Dr Nicholl and his protege Tania were there, as well as Alison the Grumpy Midwife and of course my super-husband. Dr Nicholl explained that when I felt a contraction come on, I should push as hard as I could until I couldn't feel the contraction anymore.

It doesn't sound like much in theory - simply push downwards with all the muscles in your body for twenty or thirty seconds, without breathing, then repeat it every couple of minutes for about an hour. On the other hand, it does sound a bit difficult, doesn't it?

The epidural was fading pretty fast now, and the contractions were quite clear. As each one built up, I said "here it comes", then pushed with all my might while hubby, who was right next to me, did a magnificent coaching job. It reminded me of our kickboxing practice sessions, when he would miraculously get me to run around the oval just ooooonce more, when I thought I couldn't. Both obstetricians and Alison the G.M. were also very vocal, and it really did help a lot.

Unfortunately, Fetie wasn't paying much attention. Despite the vocal enthusiasm of my coaches; the physical contortions I was performing with two people pushing my knees back and grinding my elbows into the mattress; and the huffy-puffy I was contributing, the little guy only moved about five centimetres, and his heart rate came through the monitor in increasingly erratic patterns. After nearly ninety minutes, we all congratulated each other on our efforts but agreed with Dr Nicholl's assessment - that Fetie needed forceps - or "the salad servers" as he called them.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't relieved. I mean, it would have been great to go without the physical trauma of forceps and the accompanying episiotomy, but after an hour-and-a-half of pushing and no pain relief, I was pretty keen to get the whole thing over with. Dr Nicholl gave me a 30-minute rest while the epidural was topped up again (aaaaaaah lovely!), the stirrups and screen were set up and the various pediatricians were summoned to prepare for the arrival.

What seemed like seconds later, Dr Nicholl asked me if I was ready to push again. I certainly was, and my husband/coach kicked into gear right away, with lots of "come on baby!"s and "that's it - you can do it"s at all the right moments. This was, however, a slightly more delicate affair, as the doctors needed to manouvre the forceps and Fetie's head to the right spot without injuring anyone. At some point Tania performed the episiotomy, though I couldn't feel a thing.

Only about three pushes later, hubby was invited down to the Business End to see the arrival of his son. Despite the fact that we'd agreed many weeks previously to keep hubby up at the clean end of my body, he really did think it would be rude to refuse, so down he went. This was the moment that it all became real at last, and it finally sank in that an actual baby was being born. Hubby took one look and said, "Oh my God! I can see an ear!" It's certainly a moment I'll never forget.

Then, two careful pushes later, I could see him. My son. Halfway out, then all the way. Finally, after all these months and the longest day of my life, a little blue baby appeared, arms outstretched and mouth wide open. The emotional impact was indescribable (I'm a bit teary typing this!). In moments he was cleaned and breathing, and was on my chest. "Hello! Hello! Hello! Oh, hello!" was all I could say. It felt so incredibly good to meet him at last, and to have my gorgeous husband there to share the moment with me.

Apparently during the next few minutes the placenta arrived, I was given stitches and the bedclothes were changed, but as far as I was concerned, nothing else happened that day. I just fell in love with my little, battle-scarred boy.

Aw.

Mitchell, Mum & Dad.

Special Delivery #2

The making of Mitchell - the middle
Still a bit vague on the timing of things, I think it was right after I started on the Oxytocin that Mum showed up to the delivery suite. At first I wasn't sure how I felt about having Mum in the room. I was a bit uncomfortable with the idea of her seeing me in pain and full of various tubes. But she was very enthusiastic about being present for at least part of the process of her child having a child, and she promised to only stay until things got yucky. In the end, it was fantastic having her there - she didn't seem half as concerned about my discomfort as when she'd seen me fight in a karate promotion - probably because there wasn't a team of medical staff present at my karate promotion.

Incidentally, one of the reasons I keep making karate analogies is because so far in my life, there have been two major yardsticks of pain and discomfort - giving birth and getting a black belt. And yes, giving birth is more difficult, but a lot safer.

Anyway...
It took about half an hour for me to feel the first contractions come on. I finally realised the difference between the pre-labour cramps I'd been having for a couple of weeks and the real thing. It's like the difference between a tension headache and a full-blown, going-blind-and-throwing-up migraine. I felt it in my belly, in my back and mostly down my legs. I automatically took deep, slow breaths as each one came on, and quickly realised how little that helped! I found myself getting quite ecstatic every time a contraction faded, because the relief was so intense.

After about thirty minutes of contractions, I felt no further need to be brave, and asked for the epidural to start. And that was about as close to real magic as I'm prepared to believe exists. The drugs made the pain disappear completely. I could still feel tension in my belly and my legs when contractions came on, but there was no pain at all. I started to feel so relaxed that I really don't remember much of the next few hours. I may have slept - I'm not sure. I know Mum left around about that time, and a couple of hours later, after an examination confirmed that I was 5cm dilated, hubby took leave to go to the gym around the corner for an hour or so.

It only felt like a few minutes later that the epidural started wearing off, but I'm sure it was much longer. I called hubby to make sure he was on his way back as the contractions started becoming uncomfortable again. Doctors and midwives came and went and made various "hmmm"-ing noises, and at some point hubby returned to his capable-hand-holder role. After another examination it was disovered that I'd dilated to 9cm - quicker than expected! The down-side of that discovery was the decision not to top up the epidural any further, as the second stage of labour was just around the corner.

It struck me ever so briefly that it was nearly time to push, and that after pushing came a real, three-dimensional baby! In between contractions I became quite excited and amazed that the little squirmy bump I'd been chatting to for a few months was going to be outside soon. I also became a bit impatient as the drugs wore off and the contractions felt stronger and stronger. Alison, the slightly grumpy midwife and I tried putting me in different positions to aid my comfort and that of Fetie, and we found that anything except lying on my back made Fetie's heart rate a little erratic. It was fairly entertaining, if a little difficult, trying to experiment with my position whilst I was unable to move my legs at all. Thank goodness for a big strong husband trained in lifting people!

Pretty soon I started to feel something new - a strong urge to go to the loo, or so I thought. I simply assumed that's what it was, because there hadn't been any need for Number Two since early that morning. I ignored it for about 15 minutes, until Alison the Slightly Grumpy Midwife said, "let me know if you feel like you need to do a pooh". So I did. Let her know, that is. And that's when Dr Nichols and Tania-the-Registrar were summoned for the (cue dramatic music) Second Stage of Labour, otherwise known as the pushy-pushy bit. I simply couldn't believe it had come around so fast! Ok, so it had been about 9 hours, but it felt fast after all those lovely drugs.

To be continued...

Special Delivery #1

The making of Mitchell - the morning
Even though I'm a huge fan of planning things, it was a very strange feeling arriving at the Delivery Suite at Royal North Shore Hospital on the morning of the 31st of August. Casually strolling up to the reception desk at about 8am, it still hadn't quite sunk in that I was actually there to go into labour, give birth and take a baby home.

After introducing myself and hubby, we were led to the waiting room while they prepared my room and found the midwife who would look after me for the morning. We picked up some magazines and went through the motions of flicking through the pages, all the while feeling like this was happening to some other lucky couple. Soon we were introduced to Sue The Midwife, who took us into Room 1 and organised a gown for me, took my blood pressure and some wee, and set me up on the bed. Still not quite real...

The passage of time throughout the whole day was a bit distorted, but I think I only waited about ten minutes before the obstetric staff specialist, Dr Nicholl, came to see me, and he explained the way things would work out:
1. Canulation, shortly followed by a prophylactic dose of antibiotics (a must for any heart surgery patient undergoing an invasive procedure)
2. Artificial Rupture of the Membranes (ARM) - such a touchy-feely term, isn't it?
3. Commencement of the Oxytocin drip to start contractions
4. Pain relief
5. Pushy-pushy
6. Baby!

A few minutes later, Allan, an anaesthetic resident arrived to explain a little about what was involved in an epidural block. It was decided that I should have an epidural sooner rather than later, because the less stress placed on my heart, the better for everyone's health. No argument from me - I had been keen to have an epidural from the start.

In the back of my mind, there were three stages of the process that I was concerned about:
Firstly, the canulation. I've had a canular inserted for various reasons more times than I care to remember, but for some reason I still hate it. It's just a bit icky.
Secondly, the ARM. From what I'd read and heard, this could be as vaguely uncomfortable as an average pelvic exam, or as painful as the contractions themselves. I was just a little nervous about how it would feel.
Finally, the epidural. I honestly wasn't too concerned about the risk - they don't add up to much statistically - but I'd heard from other mums that they'd had painful experiences with the insertion of the needle, and some had less-than-satisfactory results.

Concerns or no concerns, I'm a pretty good patient, and there was no turning back now...

8:30am - Canulation Time
This is never as bad as you think it's going to be. Unless you're scared of a little thing like a needle being stuck in your wrist. Which I'm not, fortunately. Sue managed a fairly average job, however. My Paramedic husband almost stepped in to help when warm globs of blood started squirting out of my arm, but thankfully Sue managed to get it all right in the end, and clean up all traces of her slight clumsiness. Phew. Concern Number One: outta the way.

8:40am-ish - The Crochet Hook
Dr Nicholl, whose manner and approach put me completely at ease, showed me the water-breaking stick and explained the process of membrane-breaking. Like any well-performed procedure, it was all done before I knew what had happened. And unlike a couple of stories I'd heard from friends, it wasn't at all painful. Concern Number Two: busted.

8:50-ish - Back-Stabbing
I was introduced to Dr Parsons, the anaesthetist who would administer the epidural. He seemed to be another doctor with the perfect bedside manner. He explained the procedure in detail, then moved me into position, bent over on the edge of the bed. Because I was a little worried, hubby dutifully held both my hands while I concentrated on staying calm. Unfortunately for him, that was the same moment that my body decided to expel an almighty gush of amniotic fluid. Ew.
The local anaesthetic that Dr Parsons administered was only a tiny prick, and after that the epidural only felt like a vaguely gross tugging and cracking of my vertebrae. Concern Number Three: Pah!

The doctor invited hubby to watch the procedure; an offer that was enthusiastically accepted. He administered a 'test dose' of anaesthetic to make sure that the catheter was positioned properly. My right leg felt entirely numb, while my left felt only mildly tingly. After a brief re-adjustment, Dr Parsons left, to return when I requested pain relief.

A little later, around 9am, Sue started the Oxytocin drip - it was all beginning! Dr Nicholl, the obstetrician, asked me if I'd like pain relief right away, or if I'd rather wait until the contractions kicked in properly. I told him that I'd like to experience a few contractions, because I was curious to know what they felt like. He mentioned that, with an induction, contractions often kicked in with more oomph than with a natural labour. The Tough Black Belt in me said, "no worries!"

Still pregnant...

To be continued...

Mitchell Thornely Stocken

Born 31 August 2006 at 19:19. 3.94kg and 52cm long.

He's here!

My son Mitchell was born six days ago, and I finally understand all that stuff about euphoria, joy and blind adoration. I am also starting to understand what real tiredness is and how surprisingly well-equipped a human can be to cope with extreme stress at some god-awful hour of the morning.

I will post lots of photos and a summary of my experience over the last week at some time in the future. I'm certain I'm not the first new mum to postpone such things!

Until then, here are a couple of shots of the cutest thing in the universe.

The Fetus formerly known as the Tadpole #19

It's time for this Fetus to meet us.
This is it, folks. Today is Fetie's due date. If I was a carton of milk, some spotty casual worker would have removed me from the fridge at Woollies on last night's shelf-stacking shift. As of midnight tonight, I am overdue. And what's happened?

Nothing. Yesterday was clinic day, and Fetie seems to be very comfortable exactly where he is. He's not engaged - he's not even any further down than he was two weeks ago. You can hardly blame the fella - I'm pretty accommodating. But sheesh! Mummy and Daddy want him oooooouuut. So...

After a chat with the obstetrician yesterday, we discussed my blood pressure and the sedative effect of the anti-hypertensives I'm taking, and I asked about what the 'standard' was for letting mums go overdue before labour was induced. She said it was generally seven to ten days, but that in my case, if I wanted a compromise, we could do it later this week. So I said fine, let's do it! But it wasn't until I actually heard her on the 'phone to the Delivery Suite saying, "Yes, I'd like to book an induction for Thursday, please", that I thought "Oh my lordy, I'm having a baby!!!"

So Thursday it is. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll be a mummy, and hubby will be a daddy. Oh, wow. So many thoughts and emotions going crazy around my drug-addled head! I'm struck by the enormity of it all, by nervousness, by excitement, by relief, and by the fact that two very organised parents-to-be who like planning everything are able to schedule in the birth of their firstborn.

I'll try my best to get a good night's sleep (no promises), then we'll leave here at about 6:30 am to be at the hospital around 7:30. What I expect to happen then depends on a whole lot of unknown stuff. They'll check the cervix no doubt, then start me on the oxytocin drip, and then it's up to biology, pharmacology, fate and a big crochet hook.

Needless to say, I might not be blogging for a few days, but I'll definitely post the news some time before Fetie starts school.

Oh, man, what will I wear?

The fetus formerly known as the Tadpole #18

My ante-natal record card is almost full...
Six days from my due date, and still waiting for Fetie to appear. Still doped out on blood pressure drugs. This week's clinic visit was remarkable for the number of people in the waiting room (at least 30 ladies ahead of me!), but unremarkable as far as my health is concerned. BP is still under control, there are no other danger signs of pre-eclampsia or anything else, so everyone agrees to just let things happen naturally while I take it easy.

What more can I say, except thank heavens that ratings season is starting on telly! Time to admit that I'm a fan of Australian Idol, even though I'm about 20 years older than the key demographic. Incidentally, I'd like to thank my mother for being honest about my singing ability from a fairly young age. I see now how much pain it saved me.

While I'm on the subject of parents, I'll also take this opportunity to mention how brilliant all of our parents - whether related by blood, marriage or social convention - have been. Loads of phone calls, driving me around, blankies, soft toys, jumpers and other clever things. Youse are tops. Ta.

Now I'll try and do my bit by getting a grandson out before Fathers' Day! I'm never quite sure where to put the apostrophe in Fathers' (Father's?) Day. I've always assumed that it goes after the 's', because it's a day for all fathers, plural. But I only have one father, and the day only applies to him, in the singular, as far as I'm concerned. I could go on for a long time about this. But I won't.

The Fetus formerly known as the Tadpole #17

Waiting, anticipating and medicating...
Since I last wrote, I've mainly been doing two things - sleeping and sitting in hospital hooked up to machines. After no fewer than three visits to the midwives in the space of eight days, they reckon that my blood pressure is low enough and stable enough for me to stay pregnant for a little while. Yay! So here I am at the 38-week-plus-one-day mark, and Fetie is still completely un-pelvis-ed.

So what have I been doing with myself? I've managed to gradually work my way through a long 'to-do' list, which includes setting up the nursery and doing my tax, and the rest of the time I've been sleeping. Apart from being a Very Pregnant Lady and hence quite sore and immobile, I'm also under the influence of the anti-hypertensive drugs, which have the not-unpleasant side effect of making me feel a bit drunk. It takes about an hour and a half after popping one for my eyes to focus properly and to feel awake, which means no driving or operating major machinery for me. No biggie, considering I'm enjoying the ability to sleep during the day immensely, but I would like to be able to pop down to the shops or visit people on a whim. Ne'er mind. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank those who have been doing the driving for me, such as my lovely husband, my lovely father-in-law, my good mate JI and my lovely parents. Ta!

I should probably stop typing now. Things are starting to get wafty. Wheeeeeee!

37-week belly shot

Nearly ready to pop, and I look like I'm trying to hide a 747 under my top. Note the strategically-placed hair to cover up the double-chin...

The Fetus formerly known as the Tadpole #16

Pensive, apprehensive and hypertensive.
So much can happen when you haven't blogged for a while. Since last time I wrote, I have started maternity leave, had a baby shower and two check-ups and washed a bunch of cot sheets! So now I'm a professional housewife with some gorgeous new stuff, a full linen cupboard and a new bottle of tablets. Let me explain...

Barefoot, pregnant and unemployed in the kitchen
It was a strange feeling, leaving work a couple of Fridays ago. It shouldn't have been, really - I have now 'left' the same employer three times - once at the end of a contract that quickly got renewed; once to travel around Africa for four months; and now, to sit at home and await Fetie's arrival. But this time I'm not on holidays, and I don't have another paid job to go to - for the first time since I was about 17! The strangeness doesn't mean I'm not enjoying the break between work and bub, though. If I was any more relaxed, I'd be asleep. And to be honest, a lot of the time I am asleep. Sleeping is much more enjoyable than daytime telly. I would like to thank my unborn son for not arriving the day after I started maternity leave. He's reached 37 weeks of gestation, and I'm only just starting to feel like I'm ready to have him 'on the outside'.

Aunty Jo's Event Management
I'll be plain. Anyone out there who thinks they've got a better sister than me is wrong. Apart from providing a very convenient 'before' image of what I sorta looked like before I got all round and crazy, my lovely twin pulled out all stops for a baby shower two Sundays ago. She provided her house, an obscene amount of food and almost all the entertainment. While some women might think they're making an effort by bunging on a pot of coffee and a few pastries, we dined on fritatta, savoury tarts, little lamby-yoghurty polenta thingies, salmon dip with crusty bread and little rolled-up prosciutto and capsicum morsels. Thanks to Jo for all the incredible work, to all my grouse rellies and mates for showing up and bringing pressies (and not giving me the 'flu), and to Robin for being the comedy relief during the quiz.

Cramping Mummy's style
In-between last week's ante-natal appointment and yesterday's, I had an odd night of abdominal cramps that came and went for hours and hours. I decided to time them, just in case they heralded Fetie's arrival. After several hours of checking the clock and making notes, I realised that there was no regularity or change in severity whatsoever, so I went to sleep. The morning shed some light on the affair, when I got up, went to the loo and greeted the nearby kookaburras with my own special, cacophonous symphony. I think it may have been a by-product of the lamb tagine and couscous that I had for dinner. That little arrival is doing well and bears an uncanny resemblance to its father.

Apparently I'm not perfect, after all...
Yesterday's clinic visit was the second of my now-weekly appointments. And unfortunately it wasn't as dull as the previous ones. My blood pressure has shot up from 130/80 last week to an all-time-high of 150/100! Stella the Lovely Irish Nephrologist and I chatted a while before testing it again, trying to stick to relaxing subjects like visiting France and Italy next year with the family, but it still stayed high enough to warrant further attention. So I was whisked across the hall to bleed into a vial and wee into a cup again, then taken to the Fetal Medical Unit around the corner. There, I was directed to a very comfy reclining chair (which I'm thinking of stealing) and sat with a Foetal monitor strapped to my belly for over an hour while midwives Zoe and Kathy kept an eye on Fetie's movements and heart rate (note to Mother: I'm aware that I have been throwing around the alternative spellings of 'fetus' and 'foetus' willy-nilly - I haven't decided which one I like best yet). It was all very calm and serene, and it was lovely to hear Fetie's heartbeat loud and strong. They gave me an apple juice to drink, to get Fetie rolling around a bit. And he most certainly did. The verdict: a happy baby with a persistently hypertensive mother. First bit good. Second bit bad. So Stella gave me a script for some anti-hypertensives and asked me back on Friday for another episode of being strapped into the Smokey Dawson Chair. Stay tuned...

The Fetus formerly known as the Tadpole #15

Waddle? I do now.
It's now week 35, and despite my earnest intention never to waddle, I've reached the point where no amount of determination can stop me from adopting the Baby Elephant Walk. I look and feel a little bit like a wind-up robot (with sore hips), who doesn't so much walk as sway slightly from side-to-side, attempting to swing one foot in front of the other in the process. I find it quite amusing. I only hope other people do, too.

It's been another fairly uneventful week in the world of gestation. And that's a good thing! Last Tuesday's clinic visit was again pretty straightforward. Everything's progressing normally, and I seem to be a very dull patient. Woo! But there have been a few noteworthy preggie moments over the last couple of weeks:

It's just a step to the right...
About a week ago, I was having a fairly uncomfortable, sleepless night. All part-and-parcel of carrying a few kilos of baby around, right? But this was different. I felt... I don't know... strange. Then when I got up for loo visit number five, I looked down and noticed that Fetie had moved entirely over to my right side, leaving the left side of my abdomen looking almost normal, and the right side like an over-packed bag of pebbles! After communicating with him using sign language, he got the message, apologised, and moved back to the middle again.

Overwhelming generosity!
This bit is dedicated to the family members and friend who have been so generous over the last few months with their donations of new and loved baby gear: Mum & Dad, who delivered a gorgous change table thingy last week; Ros and Les, who funded a brand new cot; David and Carol, who now have emptied their cupboards of every piece of baby equipment known to man; and Rob & Taki, who have provided piles and piles of clothes and toys. Thank you very, very much!

It's amazing how far cot mattresses have come...
Whilst browsing online for a cot mattress, I came across the BabyCo site, which seems to be at the forefront of cot mattress design and development. How can I tell? The first one I looked at boasted an extremely attractive and desireable feature. It said: "Comes in three dimensions". Fantastic! And yet another brand was "recommended for sleeping". Decisions, decisions...

The Fetus formerly known as the Tadpole #14

I am the walrus.
Week 32, and I'm enormous. No matter how much I want to be in control of my own body, Fetie is determined to let me know that it's not mine to control anymore!

I wouldn't say I'm waddling, exactly, but it seems that every time I stand up and try to walk somewhere, I need to experiment a little with the way my legs move in relation to my hips. And as expected, most of the time I stand up and try to walk, it's to go to the loo.

Yesterday's ante-natal clinic appointment was even speedier than the last one - I didn't even need to see a renal specialist. Which was nice. Blood pressure is ever-so-slightly elevated, but still in a normal range. Fetie is still head-down, and unlikely to move anywhere else because he's quickly running out of room.

On my way home from work last night I watched the little pantomime that Fetie puts on at various session times during the day (usually 4am, 7am, 3pm, 6pm and 9pm). I convinced myself that to other people on the bus I appeared to be merely staring down at my book, but in fact I was enjoying the freaky undulations of my belly. As Dad-to-be describes it, "watching a mouse run around under a blanket". It's a great way to pass the time, as long as Fetie isn't playing the stab-mummy-in-the-bladder game.

Apart from being verbally supportive and extremely tolerant of the occasional hormone-based emotional outburst that I surprise him with every now and then, Dad-to-be has made an effort to make sure I am never without a nickname throughout the pregnancy. Although he seems to have settled on 'Boombah' (and assures me that a boombah is actually quite cute), we've also had:

• Buddha (particularly when doing yoga in the lounge room)
• Alfred (as in Hitchcock)
• Fat Mama
• The Walrus

We really do love each other, y'know.

And now, a long overdue Belly Shot:

The Fetus formerly known as the Tadpole #13

So normal it's boring.
Another ante-natal clinic appointment this week, as I hit the magic 30-week mark! At this point I'm hearing a lot of friends say, "Ooooh! Hasn't it just flown by?" and I say, "No, it hasn't. I have been pregnant forever".

I can sum up yesterday's clinic visit thus:
Wee: yellow. Runny. Unremarkable.
Blood pressure: 120/80 thanks very much!
Fetie: Head down, right size, kicking like a mule.

Huzzah!

The Fetus formerly known as the Tadpole #12

Navel conflicts...
If there's one thing I've learned about being pregnant, it's to accept that a whole lot of abnormal feelings are perfectly normal. You know, little things like losing my balance walking in a straight line; getting monster leg cramps in the middle of the night; and being able to make the remote control flip from its resting place on my tummy onto the floor without moving a muscle.

The latest feature on the list is the alarmingly painful belly-button. I'm assured it's quite common. But sheesh! I always thought belly buttons were about as useful as men's nipples, so I think it's a bit unfair to have such an angry one. Still, I'd be pretty angry too if I was slowly being turned inside out and kicked from behind.

Oh, let's be honest - I'm quite chuffed that a sore belly-button is the biggest thing I have to complain about!

The Fetus formerly known as the Tadpole #11

Like pool comps, horse races and band-aid removal, a quick one's a good one.
Here we are in week 28, which means it's time to visit the Clinic 9 waiting room again for a couple of hours of morning TV and old magazines, interspersed with a few medical specialists.

The wait really wasn't too bad this time 'round, and it was the first chance I've had to catch my mate Clare's newish spot on the Today Show (hello Madgie!). I was one of the early birds, and after dutifully filling my little yellow cup, I was only second in the queue to see a midwife.

Blood pressure was a delightfully normal 120/80, which made me very happy indeed. Even my weight wasn't too shabby - I've popped on a tidy eight kilos in six months. Using the standard packet-of-mince conversion method, that's really only one big serve of spag bol a week! Not bad, not bad, not bad, not bad...

The midwife sent me back to my seat with a fizzy glucose drink, to be consumed an hour before a standard blood test to determine whether or not I have gestational diabetes. I had heard that the elixir was quite disgusting in its sweetness, but this version was no sweeter than your average soft drink, and it produced no fewer burps.

Next in the line-up of special guest stars was Stella the Lovely Irish Nephrologist, who seemed as pleased to see me as I was to see her. The appointment was blissfully uneventful as far as my BP and heart rhythm were concerned, and she confirmed that no more cardiac tests would be required before birth. Yaaaay! She also sheepishly asked me if I could take part in a med student's assessment in July, because of my "interesting rhythm". That's the first time my rhythm's been recommended to someone since the semi-final of the Sands Hotel Dynamic Dancing competition in 1990. In accordance with my passion for being the centre of attention, I agreed. The assessment will probably involve the student listening to my heart murmur and trying to describe my cardiac anatomy. All fun stuff.

Finally on my agenda was the obstetrician - one I hadn't seen before, and my new favourite. In my usual style, I've completely forgotten his name, but he was the most pleasant, chatty and relaxed I've seen to date. Not that the others have been nasty - I reckon it must be pretty difficult to be a bastard when the better part of your job is delivering little squidgy bundles of joy. He confirmed all sorts of good stuff, like Fetie being the right size, with the right heartbeat and facing the right way, and he also confirmed that I'd need some antibiotics administered at delivery like all members of the Zipper Club do when undergoing surgery. Apart from a short chat about the pros and cons of circumcision, that was it!

A quick visit to the pathologist for my glucose bloods and I was all wrapped up by 10am - a new record!

Oh, and I must apologise for not having any further belly shots up yet (ok mother?!). You see, my brother- and sister-in-law have the camera at the moment to take pictures of their gorgeous second son Banjo. Hang in there, Madre...

The Fetus formerly known as the Tadpole #10

Questions, questions, questions...
I'm thinking of getting a t-shirt printed with the answers to the most commonly-asked questions about my pregnancy and the little guy. It might look like this:

I certainly don't mind the questions. I love talking about myself, after all. But I do get excited when somebody asks me a question I haven't heard before. Like my friend's husband Gav, who asked, "Do you feel the way you expected to at 6 months?"

Amongst the standard questions about due date, gender, movement and health, there's been:

"Should you be doing that?"

This one has popped up on several occasions, such as when I'm kneeling in front of a filing cabinet, drinking coffee and running at slightly-faster-than-walking pace. But my favourite F.A.Q. is:

"Look at you! Have you grown since yesterday?"

To which the only correct answer, based on what I know about cell division and the reproductive system, is, "Yes".

The Fetus formerly known as the Tadpole #9

I'm probably normal. Probably.
The only thing I've waited longer for than the release of the trapped Beaconsfield miners is an official report from the resident cardiologist at the hospital where I plan to give birth. It hadn't been delivered to the team midwives at my ante-natal appointment last Tuesday. Nothing urgent really depends on it - I'd just like to know if my ticker is going to need any attention between now and Delivery Day; and if I'll be able to at least have a crack at delivering naturally (so to speak). But no news is good news, in my books.

Apart from that absent confirmation, the appointment went very well indeed. BP was normal, which was my main concern. And the obstetrician said that pending advice to the contrary, he couldn't see any reason why I couldn't deliver naturally. Yay!

This appointment was one of the few that was scheduled when hubby wasn't working, so he came with me and did all the important things like asking questions, nodding sagely at the answers and catching up on gossip magazines from mid-2005 while we were in the waiting room. I think he was totally unprepared for the amount of time we spent waiting between appointments, and expressed a little sympathy for me having to do it over and over again. But as I've said before, it really doesn't bother me, and it's better than having no publicly-funded maternity program at all.

I guess the ante-natal experience is a bit Zen, in more ways than one. Not only do I sit quietly for hours contemplating my navel (which is still an inny, thank goodness), I'm also starting to look more and more like Buddha...

Overdue belly shot

All the cool kids are doing it...
Taking progressive belly shots seems to be a popular way to keep track of one's emerging bulge. I'm a bit behind in this, as I'm already 22 weeks and have only just got around to publishing a 19-week shot. And, just to be super-hilarious, in this shot I'm barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen.

The Fetus formerly known as The Tadpole #8

Happy hormones sometimes take a holiday.
I think the honeymoon period for happy hormones is over. I'm still deleriously happy and excited about having a bub, and Husband is more enthusiastic every day. But I could only have a Disturbingly Chirpy period for so long, and the other night I just lay myself down and had a big cry.

Trying to describe to an emotionally stable male partner that you don't have to be sad to feel like sobbing, is a bit like explaining why trackie dacks are unsuitable for restaurant wear, no matter how clean they are. Both seem a little illogical, but make perfect sense if you're a woman. And yes, that's sexist. (For the record, he was extremely supportive and said heaps of really nice, sensible stuff.)

After having lunch today with Missy Vas, who is about eight weeks ahead of me in the baby-cooking process and who assured me that she's been crying for no reason at least once a week, I feel heaps better. Thank you, my bumpy friend!

The Crave-o-meter #3

This week, I are bin mostly cravin'...
Lemon juice.

Guch-ie Guch-ie Goo

Looks like the ticker and the little kicker are compatible.
At my last ante-natal visit, Stella the Lovely Irish Nephrologist expressed some concern about the lack of anatomical detail available from my last echocardiogram, and sent me off to a cardiologist yesterday, with questions about heart health and delivery options.

I'm not usually nervous about cardiologists or any other sort of doctor, but the purpose of this visit was primarily to confirm the bits of my heart anatomy not clear on last month's echocardiogram, and the simplest way to do this would be with a trans-oesophageal cardiograph (TO). Ick.

In layman's terms, that means sticking a tube down one's throat under sedation to take pictures of one's heart. To my tentative delight, the cardiologist suggested that my lack of symptoms and history of fitness don't really indicate any need for a TO while I'm still pregnant. He'll be checking with another cardiologist during the week, but so far, so good. Still no conclusive advice about the recommended mode of delivery for Fetie, but we'll know that when we know it.

For those not up-to-speed with my condition, I'm what Stella the Lovely Irish Nephrologist referred to as a GUCH - a Grown-Up Congenital Heart patient (also known as a member of the Zipper Club). The day after I was born a bit blue, I had surgery to correct pulmonary atresia, and was also diagnosed with an atrial septal defect (ASD) and a patent ductus arteriosus (PDA).

The bits in question now are the ASD and PDA, which, if they're present, don't seem to be affecting my health now, but can have future implications. So whilst a tube-down-the-throat isn't likely in my immediate future, I don't think I'm off the hook forever.