Mornington was a bit of a revelation to us. We’d only ever been to the industrial part of it, but this time went down to the bay. It’s gorgeous, and generally protected – a perfect place for a picnic and to go sailing in Moo. The shops there were kind of cool too – an apparent abundance of cafes, as well as a couple of bookshops. Mornington is nice.

Today M accompanied me to a ‘baby market’ in Berwick. It was a strange and freaky occasion!! There were a bazillion prams, bouncer things, and scads and scads of clothes. M and I had crack lessons from stallholders about what the sizes 00 and 0 correspond to in age, and then realised that it was sort of irrelevant because PartyPie might be a long stringy noodle of a baby or a fat little todger. There seems to be a distinct lack of bright coloured clothes (that aren’t pink or blue), so we just wandered the stalls pouncing on bright orange items and tiny sunhats. M got to investigate some modern cloth nappies that I’d been telling him about, and all in all, it wasn’t too scary. PartyPie scored some supercheap cool clothes that might fit during the correct seasons…or not, and we got a bit more used to the whole idea. Doesn’t stop me feeling like a strong gin, lime and tonic though.

“Oh, and by the way, as well as getting generally bigger, the girls will also get wider thus rendering the underwire a stabbing weapon of mass destruction. Just so you know.”

I read in various places that underwires were a no no, but L’s venerable obstetrician said, sensibly, that they were fine unless they caused discomfort. It was when I had to start using bandaids to cushion the poking into the wide bits that I recognised this truth. That was hard. Soft cups and I? We’ve never got along. But for comfort, I was prepared to compromise – as long as they came in black. But even by this point I had whimpered my way through increasing numbers of underwired misadventures – so there went about $200.

The first soft cup I put on lasted all of 90 minutes, when I tore it from my chest and left it in the middle of the lounge for a week so I could kick it every time I went past. I returned to the underwire. This was brief, and expensive. Take note: buying a bra online because a) it’s on sale, and b) because Oprah says it’s the biz, does not count for much when it finally arrives in the post and fails noticeably in general containment.

(I have fond thoughts that after PartyPie has been around for a while, I will work my way backwards through these numerous misdemenours and they will suddenly fit me for a month or two as I morph snap hopefully revert back to something resembling former somewhat svelter self.)

But I digress. I had begun with a singlet/bather top combo, progressed to underwires, gone for the soft cup, rejected it for further wiring and then still failed to realise my most basic mistake. The mistake based on the naïve belief that actually, my boobliliciousness could not feasibly continue. Each time my bra size increased, I was convinced that that was it. No more. And so, each time, I would rifle frenziedly through sale piles, and ebay, for the same bras in the same size. Which is how I came to have a drawer full of size 10 (and I hesitate to type it) Es. TEN E!!!

At this point, male readers will have the same expression they assume when standing in front of the fridge looking for something that might not have been put Right At The Front and is therefore Irretrievably Lost Forever. Females will be wincing. This is the correct response. Because there is nothing good about zipping from a B/C cup to an E in the space of three and a half months. NOTHING.

M finally took matters in hand (and no, that is not a double entendre, mainly due to the pure physical impossibility involved – there are no hands big enough) and we hit Myer in the city like a SWAT team. I sent him among the racks. After some initial bafflement, he emerged triumphant with a swag of 10Es in one hand and a bra fitting lady in the other. The latter took me into the change rooms, after showing M to the Husband’s Seat, where he settled with some relief.

The fitter was wily. She sighed while I coerced the girls into the corral, and stuck her finger under the backstrap like she was testing the temperature of soup.

“You’re not a 10E anymore,” she said, rendering M’s hard won pile of bras useless, “I’ll go and get you some size 12s.”

That’s when I knew that more money was about to haemorrhage from the credit card of doom. The one positive thing about the size 10E is that it is so weird (the 10 indicates the size around your ribs, the E indicates the cup size: i.e. you’re fairly slim with huge norgs) and this means you find them on sale racks. 12E, on the other hand, is almost run of the mill. So of course, the rack of Elle McPherson bras that were 50% off was full of 10Es, and not a single 12E. Of course.

The fitter lady came back. She held some of the underwire bras I had been looking at, now in size 12, and two scary shapeless looking swags of fabric. She watched as I tried on the trusty underwires, which did remarkably little due to the norg-width issue. Then she spoke.
“Just humour me and try on one of these.”
I realised that the shapeless fabric was, in fact, a maternity bra. And shuddered.
“You don’t have to buy it, I just want you to try it.”
I narrowed my eyes at her, this was no time for rhyme, and then boggled at the amount of hooks on the back.
“There are more hooks on the back to loosen it off as you get bigger.”
“Oh, no, that’s OK. I don’t plan on getting bigger.”
She smiled at me, and I concentrated on positioning the scaffolding. She hooked me in. Oh. My. God.
Sweet relief. SWEEEEEEEET relief.

She was nice enough not to say anything, but just snipped off the tags and told me to do myself a favour and leave it on. I bought it. It was $60 [sob] and stupidly, I could not justify buying two, so I bought a slightly cheaper preggo one in the same norgtastic size. M and I exited Myer Melbourne to the sound of trumpets.

And it was all fine for just over a month. Until now…

After telling me I needed to put on some weight in areas other than my chest, they took pity on me. They took my 12E and one of them altered it overnight into a special fitted-just-for-me size (i.e. altered the circumference of the backstrap via a chop and a pleat and an overlocker. Or something). They gave me a brand new preggo bra to tide me over and sent me on my way. How’s that!?

I just went and picked up the 12E – now a modified sort-of 10F. Hallelujah brother!! All I needed was some customisation! They tried to charge me $5 for the alteration. I gave them ten. And my soul. And my first born And ordered another one – to be modified on arrival. Everything has started to feel a Whole Lot Better – let’s just hope that I am not back on the goldfish bowl loop of thinking that the boobaliciousness has now reined itself in. But it’s hard not to be hopeful because the guru ladies reckon this one might just get me through…

“Prune juice,” she told me, “Half a glass with some hot water in it and a squeeze of lemon.”

“Ah ha!” I thought, “Another way for me to try and eat fruit. Good.”

M, sick of my whinging, went out to the supermarket in his beloved new set of wheels and came back with six one litre bottles of 100% prune juice. I looked at them, and they sat there complacently. Similar to what was happening with my internal organs. Personally I didn’t think half a glass of this stuff was going to get my problem anywhere near fixed, so I tossed back two glasses… and then spent the night with my insides feeling like some gaseous mud swamp. And that was it.

Yesterday, M had some prune juice with his breakfast, and returned twelve hours later looking hunted.

“I think you’re right,” he said [how I love hearing that phrase]. “I was using power tools and had my mask and headphones on, but I could tell that the prune juice had got to me, because I could feel my butt making sharp guttural barking noises. About ten minutes later I stopped work, took off my mask and almost passed out from the swamp smell.”

I was rolling on the floor. “But DID YOU POO?”

He looked thoughtful. “No, no I didn’t. My butt just started acting like some choked up outboard motor.”

I forgave him the the inevitable boat analogy [excuse me for the pun] and delicately indicated that this, indeed, was what had happened to me. Although my butt was a Tohatsu 2.5 horsepower, while his sounded more like a Yahmaha 40. Regardless of this, it seems that E has a special relationship with the juice of the prune that others are sadly unable to replicate. And so it’s back to lots of water and some black coffee.

I am waging a continuing war using prunely goodness, hot water with lemon and paddock walking, but neither side is winning so far. Thus I am closer to becoming the person my mother always wished for – a fruit lover. As I was attacked by a pineapple (ate too much, came out in full body rash) I have redirected my fruit intake (and I can’t believe I even have one) to bananas and punnets of strawberries. And at least two litres of water a day. Am sick of thinking about my own self and associated inner mechanics and inhabitants. What I really would like is a plate of sushi and a bottle of Giesen. All to myself.

If you decide to turn up tomorrow, which is what I would prefer, as I happen to think that having the birthdate 08/01/08 is pretty cool, I will not only be pleasantly charmed at your obedience, but I promise to remember that baby-on-the-outside sleep deprivation must be infinitely preferable to baby-on-the-inside-I-can’t-recall-ever-being-both-prone-and-comfortable.

And although I am destined to probably play the role of a 24/7 milk bar, I am comforted by the fact that the small amounts of sleep I may be lucky enough to achieve will not be hampered by feeling like a humpback whale trying to perform hapless callisthenics.

I tried to sleep outside today on my new red banana lounge, and the reason I knew that M was NOT watching out the window was the absent sound of hysterical laughter. The banana lounge and I finally agreed to differ. We are having a trial separation.

My need for sleep relates directly to the degree to which I become a satanic gargoyle in the mid to late afternoons. Nanna naps are key. Unfortunately there are some days where I feel peachy-fine, like yesterday, and can weave on to about 10pm sans nap – whereupon I toss and turn before finally getting up at about 2am to feed on krill.

Thus, the next day begins with gargoyle overtones, as I can’t sleep in due to aforementioned inability to be comfy. This is old news to the previously pregnant – and how witty of biology to make sure one is so thoroughly SICK of one’s status that one is willing to undergo almost any degree of torture to escape it. So, PartyPie, here it is – I exhort you to hurry the hell up and to ignore that ridiculous statistic that only five percent of babies arrive on their due date.

I am aware that genetically, you have a 50/50 chance of either being about nine days late (now that was hard to type, let alone contemplate) both due to my own personal arrival into the world and my generally relaxed feelings about punctuality) or about nine days early – which is directly represented by when M thinks we need to leave the Trailer to get anywhere ‘on time’.

However, as you didn’t arrive five days ago, I’m hoping for a blend of the above and that tomorrow will not only be my Aunt-in-Binginwarri’s-Birthday – but your birthday as well. I may even provide a cake.

Yours Sincerely,
Your Mothership and Current Vessel of Choice

M, Zoe and I waited out the hot weather until the change broke around midday today and left our little life at the hospital and went out into the proper world. I sat in the back with Z and M drove and we sang songs by the Shins. It was like we’d won the war. Both of us are quite incredulous, with side servings of euphoria and disbelief. In our rush to the hospital we forgot our phone chargers and so both phones had carked it by this morning – we’ve only just been able to plug them in and start listening to the most lovely messages from all our friends.

The 17 people who voted “It’s A Girl” are the obvious winners, and are therefore smarter, cooler and more highly intuitive than those who voted “It’s A Boy”… Ha! The actual discovery of this vital point was quite amusing – as M initally called it wrong and the midwives had to gently suggest he take another look. I will post a few pictures…when I can find ones that don’t feature my OH-MY-GOD-THEY’RE-ENORMOUS boobalicious action.

And at the same time, her present-magnet talent seems to have also rubbed off a bit on to M and I – generally in the form of being given fantastic food – but also in the shape of a Sony Handycam (no pressure, just film the kid…or ELSE), some body cream, and I also was the very grateful recipient of a membership to LibraryThing – something I have coveted for a-g-e-s. Thank you Mr H.

Just for general information, food that I have eaten in the last two weeks has included Every Single Thing that I was prohibited from consuming for the past nine months. I began with D’Affinois at the birth centre – although the odd thing is – the first thing I ate after the event was a Savoy cracker biscuit, and it was very nearly the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Odd. Then I had california rolls. So, with the help of some very generous and accommodating people I have also ingested copious amounts of sashimi, brie, blue cheese, oysters, smoked trout, more sashimi – and these are just the ones that were previously illegal. My tummy is so happy it has almost forgiven me for stretching it way on past the outer limits… And I am yet to get to the Piper-Heidsieck champagne, as I am saving it for my own personal use at a later date.

P.S For some reason I am yet to determine, I started writing this entry at least THREE DAYS AGO. I am trying to wrangle my life into control, but I am becoming increasingly aware that I have to try to stop starting a plethora of things that I won’t finish and narrow my focus down to just a few things. Gah. Carrying these eyebags is making me thirsty.