Dear Miss Laurie,
In two days we will begin the T-minus 10 week count down. This week you get eyelashes.. the very things that will oneday make you regret using mascara from all the stray ones that get swallowed up by your eye socket and make permanent home behind your eyeball.
I'm now breathing like a ten pack-a-day smoker since you now favour pushing all my innards into my mouth and what feels like you punching your little pillow into shape under my ribs.. I'd see the funny side if everytime you kicked my ribs they would make xylophone sounds like it does in cartoons. But they don't. So I'm not laughing. Only wincing in pain and secretly wanting your Dad to run to my side with every creak and moan I have... only he doesn't... he apparently doesn't read minds.
You are now extending your little limbs and leaving them hanging out in mid air.
The last letter I wrote you, your Dad only felt you kick once... he has since had you kick him in the face and viciously boot 20 times in a row when he was running his hand over you... its okay... we tell eachother that you're just being "playful". We've agreed though that you don't like your Midwife. Your kicks seem more deliberate for her.
You're only a third of the body weight you're apparently going to be and I already am wondering if they have seat belt extenders for cars. If this is any indication we're going to give birth to the female Hulk Hogan, then I can't wait for you to go on wrestling tour and pay for our retirement. We could live with you on your wrestling tour bus and drink a couple non alchy beers after each show. WHO SAYS YOUR MAMA CAN'T HANG?
Dear Miss Laurie,
It's officially December now, and man I wish you were a year old already, I'd totally be decking out the Christmas tree and wrapping up wrapping paper for you since that seems to be all babies are interested in when it comes to presents. Don't worry though Miss Laurie, your Yia Yia is already putting away Christmas presents for you next year... she just expects to have first dibs on your name cause naming her own children and your uncles children apparently wasn't enough.
We went for our first swim of the summer over the weekend. I envisioned refreshing romantic weightlessness on my back being carried along top fluffy pillows of waves. But it was brief. Not so much romantic. And more on the freezing side of refreshing. I had a second of weightlessness lying on my back as I didn't count for the fact that I now carry a keg of liquid, guts, goop and extra human on my front so I bobbed over like a head heavy cork and was too scared to touch the ground cause of the seaweed. So I almost drowned in a metre of water.
They would've sent out the rubber duckie and I could've got on Piha Rescue if I were at Piha. Then someone would've made up shirts of my pregnant silhouette, tummy down in a metre of water screaming for help and sold them at the Sunday carboot markets in the carpark under the Whangarei Cinemas.
They would've sold out to an overwhelming demand that they would then turn it into a business. Then they would start up a dot.com and sell internationally. One of those countries would be a country well call the U, S and A.
They'd then get an appearance on the Nickelodeon red carpet by someone famous, like Rob Pattinson and get a mention when Guiliana Rancic asks "Who are you wearing?".
Then all Americas tweens would beg their parents to get the same shirts for them for Christmas. One of those young kids would be Corby... Gails daughter.
Gails bestfriend Oprah would hear about what Gail got Corby for Christmas and think it would be a good idea to find out more about this shirt as it sounds like another possible fad that has hit the planet, like "Skip It's" and "Pet Rocks", "Koosh Balls" and "Mood Rings" and feature it as a possible upcoming fad that we shouldn't all buy into on her next show.
After some investigation by her people, they would come to the conclusion that these shirts don't fall into the "Fad" category. But it would be more practical to feature the company itself on her show in the "Rags to Riches" feature scheduled for next Month as Wikipedia details that this company obviously had their fair share of rags beginning in a carboot under a Cinema Complex. The company would then feature on Oprah and become so big the internet would blow up.
And all because of you and me.
But it didn't happen like that cause the seaweed floated past so I was brave enough to stand up.... and I wasn't at Piha.
Speaking of your Dad, (I know we weren't actually speaking of him in the previous paragraph but I wanted to bring him into conversation, so the first thing in my mind for beginning this new paragraph was "Speaking of your Dad" thus the "Speaking of your Dad" part at the beginning of this paragraph) he's already practicing walking your pram up and down the hallway.
He's totally cool.
Guess what he did?
since you and I didn't make it to Church on Sunday (did you know that? I'm sorry, I know how much you like the Drums and Bass and clapping and people poking and prodding you - but I was sore and swollen and tired so we couched the morning away) your Dad went in and played Bass.
Not expecting him to come home with anything more than the Milk we needed to get us through till our usual grocery day he walks in with lunch and a MANGO and a MILKSHAKE MIX!! and an amazingly dreamy COT!!! and a fancy CHANGING TABLE SLASH BATH SLASH STORAGE THING ON WHEELS!!!! What a man.
(Did you notice how I built it up with the use of Capslock, exclamation marks, the bold feature, Italics and a splash of colour? that's called education. Stay in school.)
As far as Husbands go, your Dad is totally boss. He is the cheese to my macaroni.
No doubt there will be times when you leave the house in frustration or anger, it doesn't matter what reason, don't ever leave without telling him you love him. Ever. Appreciate him.
Tell him how awesome the gardens and lawns look.
How perfect his steak cooking abilities are.
How much of a hard worker he is.
Laugh at his jokes and make him cups of coffee without being asked.
One day he won't be there anymore so don't leave room for regrets and "should'ves".
It's the relationship with your Dad that will give you best indication of your level of worth.
Listen to him.
The things he says and the things he doesn't.
He's your hero.
If you go by his example of what to expect in a man, you'll find a good thing.
I totally looked down just now and saw the remnants of what used to be recognisable as human feet. They've apparently been replaced with those of an Elephant. Just for that you can't wear makeup till your wedding day. I so can't wait to give you your first taste of lemon.
I do love you though, you truely are the heartbeat of life. I've decided to ignore all the horrid stories I've been told about birth. They'll only rob me of the joy of these last weeks. Besides someone elses horror story doesn't necessarily mean it's going to be the blueprint of my experience. I trust that my body knows what to do. That you are perfectly and wonderfully made. For that I thank God. I'm just sorry that on your birthday your Koro and your Poppa wont be there to hold you close, but believe every word when I say that you would be the very love of their lives. Your Yia Yia keeps saying that your Koro would make the trip out to our place everyday after work just to give you a chocolate fish. I tend to believe that. Thats the type of man he was. You may never have met him but you can be proud that you are part of his line.
Since my eggo is indeed preggo and am for shizz up the spout, I was recently given a Magazine on healthy and active pregnancy and was pretty disappointed when I read that I'm actually supposed to be exercising.. but not as disappointed as I am that the mammoth act of getting out of bed and clothing myself doesn't count. I think if the person that wrote that article actually witnessed the contortions, the self body boosting and experienced a bit of the pain and the sweat it takes me just to get out of bed, then they'd voluntarily throw their internet PHD's out the window and go get slapped by their Mama's. I found it pretty interesting the article was written by dude too. There's just something about the presence of a pregnant woman that suddenly makes everyone in the room an expert on the health of unborn children. Bless em.
You haven't even been born yet and I'm already getting on the "my baby will be at school soon" crazy-train. Then you will have your own Caleb Smith that sits on your lunch box and tries to lure you into the boys toilets with orange wedges. Just make sure you scream loudly and tell him your Daddy has a gun... just like your Mama did when she was 5.
And when you're 8, don't go marrying those Jason Rooke's on the field at School... it'll only follow you around for the rest of your life and even find it's way into a speech by your Head Bridesmaid on your REAL Wedding day.
But ALWAYS wear undies or one of those Kohatu Harris's will down trail you when you take a sip of water at the drinking fountain and then when you get into an arguement with him later on he'll pull out the "At least I wear undies" line. Complete burn.
Well baby girl, this is the last day of 2009. Thank you for holding out like a good girl and not making your trip down the creek without a paddle too early. Only 5 weeks until the day of Waitangi, Bob Marleys birthday and your approximate expulsion date and then its Prison Tatts, Ciggies and Moonshine here I come! Hahaha no, no... but I will be all over Sushi, Red Bull, painting my toenails, chasing the dog when he eats the rubbish, sleeping on my tummy and eating swine flu pork and raw chicken just like a rash! Woo!
But most of all, I can't wait to meet you and to see your Dads reaction to your meconium.
♦ cause things are still beautiful 2nd time around ♦