A Pool of Nostalgia; The Whale's Plight.

Some of you may have heard several (thousand) times that I’m due to have a baby any day, now. I did my darnedest to remain active in the lead-up to this booty-breaking event, but finally begun to find even the low-impact Stroll too painful. I haven’t been near a pool in years, but recently took a load off and switched to the weightless workout of swimming.

The gym swimming pool is a weird and wonderful world. Inhabited mostly by eager, young children for scheduled classes, the Member Swim time is contrarily comprised of little old ladies who sit and chat, and one panting pregnant lady who switches between.. ‘unclassical’ swimming and walking.

Not quite a natural in the pool, my thoughts are quick to fill with silly, so I attempt to clear my mind and use the time as a sort of meditation. There is certainly a peacefulness in following the lines of the foil ceiling overhead as I gently backstroke, my ears filling with the quiet rumble of water. I think about a recent interview with Ian Thorpe, where he said the world fell away when he trained, as he was completely absorbed in the task at hand, and I realise.. I’m no Ian Thorpe! How did those dents get in the ceiling, anyway?
I’m always amused by the sign on the wall, “No supervision provided,” alongside some ‘rescue’ equipment, which consists of a rope in a bag, the world’s tiniest paddle board and, most helpfully, a spear gun (which claims to be a rod). The sign in the change rooms, “Don’t swim with diarrhoea” also make me smile, but my smugness is quelled when I note the nappy change stations lining the walls and remember I’m almost certainly swimming in shit. Speaking of those who float in poo, my thoughts also turn to my baby. When my belly starts moving, I first get the panicked feeling that I’m holding my baby under water and have to remind myself that there’s is a protective layer or two.

Sometimes, I’m ‘caught’ by the Sitting, Talking Ladies and have to slow my pool walk even further to marching on the spot (as the water’s oddly too shallow for tredding). One lady told me the story of going to a bbq when she was pregnant with her first, and giving birth just two hours later. This tale came right before I was due to take a 1.5hr car trip for my nephew’s birthday. Another conversationalist was a Malaysian lady who insisted on telling me the entire pool timetable, which I assured her I already had as I tried to swim away. She also taught me that the Baby Bonus was cancelled because immigrants spent it on big tvs (“Really?..” “I don’t know, but that’s what I heard.”) and that today’s housing prices are thanks to the wealthy Chinese snatching-up properties with their generous offers. Damn immigrants and Chinese (especially Chinese immigrants)… I literally had to tell my Malaysian friend, “Ok, I’m going to backstroke now, so I’ll lose my ears” - which she acknowledged, then carried on talking.


Normally, about an hour before the Member sessions end, a handful of non-old ladies arrive to smash out some laps. Most of them put my water-waddling to shame with their speed and skill, but I did see two interesting interpretations of swimming in one session. An Asian lady (one of the property-swooping Chinese, no doubt) gripped her little paddle board and thrashed with her feet like a 5 year old. It reminded me of the Chinese people we saw at the beach in Thailand, who wore floaties and took photos of each other lying in the shallows. Our travel mates, who live in China, explained that many Chinese who can’t swim like to pose for ‘swimming’ photos to show back home. Next, I saw (or heard!) an Asian dude who technically could swim, splash with all his limbs as if escaping a shark. I remember learning to break the water gently with your little finger and concluded that this amusing fellow might be expending too much energy!

One of the regular swimmers wears the same cologne as my first boyfriend, whisking me back in time. Just as the olfactory sense triggers memory, I have repeatedly discovered the power of the pool in stirring nostalgia. The lap-swimmers remind me of Grandfather, who continued to swim across the waves at the beach every day for the first few years of my life. Not too shabby for an old dude with emphysema and a belly to compete with Santa Claus’. In fact, when I’m bored of my swims after 20 minutes, I think, “C’mon, if Gramps and Harold Holt could do this, so can you!”
The scattered puke-patterned fluoro mats bring back memories of playing in the local pool with my brothers when I visited Dad as a kid. Al wasn’t afraid of peeing in the pool, though, a slightly less fond recollection.
When I look over to the ice cream fridge in the canteen-style entrance, I think of the caravan park store at Waratah Bay, where we’d go for family holidays. You’d swim for a couple of hours then down an ice cream, maybe some lollies and about a litre of soft drink (followed by some classic prank calls at the nearby phone booth – remember those?). Yep, that seems to balance out. (Baby, if you’re reading this.. No.)

All in all, swimming has provided a relaxing, low-impact workout for this old preggo, which I recommend to others. It does just bring up a couple of unanswered questions, though – If my water breaks, will I notice? And do I admit it to anyone, or just run away?



*Now at 41 weeks, I should note that I contacted my midwife to inquire about the safety of swimming whilst pregnant, as I suspected it may be problematic once the delightful mucous barrier is expelled. I was actually advised that since I haven't been swimming long-term and my body isn't used to the bacteria of public pools, it could be unsafe throughout pregnancy, generally. This is only one opinion and I would personally continue to swim if I wasn't past my due date, but I guess I shouldn't jeopardise the womb at this point. Bummer, dude! (It's certainly not 'gnarly', anyway.)

Rolling In to See The Stones

Youngest audience member
(and my responsible dinner)

Due to unforseen circumstances, it was over a year since we purchased tickets to The Rolling Stones before we were finally able to enjoy them – which saw me at precisely 8 months pregnant. I ran to meet my time conscious husband at the train station after work on Wednesday (a school night, of all occasions!), then reminded myself that giving birth at the show might be a cool story for my child but not for me, and slowed to a sensible pace. I lamed us again in the final leg from Richmond station because my back hurt. “Now my front hurts. Now both.” (At this rate, Ben would NEVER get me on his shoulders in the mosh pit.)

We met Ben’s folks at the door and we three generations filed in to grab some fine Rod Laver grub. I queued up for a menu I couldn’t see and found there was no option but to indulge my fried food craving. Well, ok, there was grilled fish and salad, but only a maniac would try to eat that in a foyer. No option, I say!
To avoid further pressure on my bladder, I bought only one small bottle of water to sensibly sip throughout the show. Due to insatiable juice cravings, however, (I work at a food supply company and my mouth literally waters when a customer orders juice) I also had to down an entire bottle of OJ on account of having seen it, so.. That plan was a bust.

Only 20 minutes past the scheduled start time, I was faced with that old Shakespearean quandary – “To pee or not to pee?” My co-concert goers insisted, “You can’t miss the intro! Look at that pregnant lady in front of you – She’s being good!” (Oh.. I thought I was special but I could literally reach out and touch another pregnant lady. She told me to get my hands off her, but I had to prove my point) so I stupidly held for another 20 minutes before making like a boulder back down the stairs.  I returned to my seat in time for the band’s entrance and can proudly report there were no more dunny dashes (notable news, in my life).

I nervously awaited the baby’s reaction to the loudest sound I’d heard in 8 months. Once the mile long speakers started pumping, there was a stunned stillness from the womb. Next came a riot of kicking and punching which was probably panick, but I chose to dismiss as dancing!
The baby had no choice but to adapt to the new energy in the room because, by golly, those old boys have still got it. When the band hit the stage,  Mick jumped around to their opening Jumping Jack Flash and was still going strong a few sweat-laden towels and costume changes later. The intensity did ease off a bit when, by about song 4, we were treated to the live experience of our wedding song, Wild Horses. I gave one hand to Ben and put the other on my belly, and shed a little tear of appreciation.

Aside from keeping fresh, Jagger’s multiple looks for the evening served his more flamboyant sense of showmanship. They began with a sparkling, emerald green jacket and included a floor-dusting red and orange feather cape that represented fire. I’d expected the renowned Jagger ‘moves’ to be a little unco and comical, but although his unabashed expression did give us the occasional giggle, his performance was suave and fluid – almost as if he’d had 50 years’ experience, or something. It was rather funny to see a 71 year old skipping across the stage, but it was only when he’d slow to a fast-paced walk that you could see a stiffness and fragility (which perhaps was always typical of his movement. I couldn’t say). There were no restrictions to his hips, however, which I’d heard aptly said were like a 13 year old girl’s - in movement and appearance. Jagger’s still a wisp of a man and when considering his frame and 70s-inspired wardrobe, I realised he’d have no need to change when he was always loved as-is. And boy, do the girls still love him! I never bought Kesha’s interest in ‘dudes.. who look like Mick Jagger’ until I personally witnessed some attractive young ladies losing their shit in the crowd. I, too, loved Jagger’s cheeky banter and charisma but, I gotta stick to my agism. C’mon, girls.. 71.

Then, there was the player who looked much more suitably mellow for his age – Keith Richards. He and Mick are two of a kind; both belonged on the stage and looked completely at home. Keith, however, was incredibly understated while somehow maintaining a strong stage presence. He stood dreamily in the background and shared his life’s work without a flicker of self-doubt. When Mick needed a rest, Keith seamlessly took the mic and kept the show flowing on. Even his soft little pot belly seemed to work in with his whole chilled vibe.


Now, although I’m a fan of their music, I’m sure I don’t know enough about the band to fairly assess its members. But, lord knows I will, jerk that I am. I wasn’t overly impressed with Ronnie Wood, to be honest. I learned he’s the ‘baby’ of the group, but felt this didn’t explain why he was dressed like a 20-year old. He came off as affected and oddly attention-seeking, which reeked to me of insecurity. Once I’d made my initial judgment, though, I did come to appreciate the complimentary contrast between the three stars and how perfectly they worked together. Each was immersed in the music and their own role, but there was a palpable trust and unconscious awareness of one another, as between limbs on the same body. When a burst of energy seemed to move Mick or Ronnie blindly across the stage, there was never a risk of collision.

Finally, of course, there was Charlie Watts.. Who I didn’t even know was bona fide member until Ben mentioned him after the show! In fact, when he shared the final bow with the other 3 members, I wondered, “What’s that old fart doing?” (“Get off the stage!”) He looked like some generic old dude who was earning a crust and wanted to get home! Ben tells me now that he has been very ill and wasn’t easily convinced to go back on tour, so I do have a retrospective appreciation, now. On ya, Charlie.

Someone else I was peeking on throughout the show was Ben’s dad, whose ticket we  bought for Christmas. John was very still and quiet, a trademark of original fans at gigs – they record every detail with their eyes and ears to enjoy from memory later. I saw his knee jigging at one point, though, so he did allow for some minor grooving.

Whilst some long-time performers exceed their expiry to disappoint fans on modern day tours, time has only perfected The Stones. I came in expecting Jagger’s voice to have wearied but was thrilled to hear him match the calibre of his records.The band was accompanied by many talented vocalists and musicians, including an Aussie choir for the magical encore performance of You Can’t Always Get What You Want. Tickets may have cost us a fortune, but we paid for some good quality shit.

It wasn’t hard to imagine we were seeing the band in their hay day. I wanted to take photos but decided it more authentic to leave with just a ticket and a memory, like we might have 50 years ago. (Plus, I was scared I’d get caught and I don’t want to have a jail baby.) It struck me that The Stones themselves are an important part of history; I thought about what they’ve seen and done and the people they’ve known, and was humbled to be in their audience. We too felt historically significant by experiencing what may be the band’s last Aussie tour. Definitely one of the best gigs I’ve ever been to. Thank you, Benny, for getting our tickets.

Our one photo of an empty stage. *Memories.*

The First Trimester - Fully Sick.

And I swore I wouldn't be
on of those scan-posters!

When Ben and I decided to start a family, people told me to be patient. It can take a while for your cycle to get back to normal after contraception and these things just take time, anyway. Despite this sound advice, I had a really good feeling and was very disappointed when my first 3 eager pee tests gave me the olll’ single blue line middle finger. I’d reduced my caffeine intake to increase my chances, cut out alcohol and other ‘baddies’ and took to the bedroom from day 7 to 20 for the full scope of opportunity. Of course, this doesn’t compare to the struggle of many women, but when test 3 made it clear we were unsuccessful, I imagined going through this process every month for years and facing let-down after let-down. Annoyed at our first result, I stuffed myself with the rare meat and undercooked eggs I’d foregone and drank my share of booze to reassure everyone I wasn’t pregnant (as we old marrieds are obliged to do). At a friend’s wedding, I ordered a second glass of champagne and my mind screamed, “You can’t have another – It’s poison!’ (“Hmm, that’s weird.. I’ve never seen the poisonous drug alcohol as harmful, before.. Must be losing my taste for it.”) My breasts were a little tender and I was convinced that one had grown, but that was probably a natural symptom of ovulation that I’d long forgotten. Odd that I was so damn tired though, I thought, as we road-tripped to the next booze-laden destination.

I was running a little late getting ready for work, one day, and was even later for my period, so I thought it would be sensible to take one last, quick test. The slovenly pee stick finally woke-up and said, “What? Huh? Yep, I’m up.. Oh, yeah - you’re pregnant. Two blue lines” – which, incidentally, is all I could say to my husband. I called him at work, wheezing, “Two blue lines! Two lines! Ah, it’s normally one and now it’s two, so.. Y’know?!” Not wanting to give anything away to his colleagues, he took it all very professionally: “Mm-hm, uh-huh. Well, everything seems to be in order, madam. I’m delighted to partake in this endeavour and shall see you anon.”
I asked, “How the hell am I gonna get through the day?!” but what I should’ve wondered was how I’d get through the night.. After the worst sleep of my life, I learned that the same pregnancy hormone that knocks you out can also cause insomnia. Ah, the perfect balance. I went back to work on day two of ‘knowing’, as the most zombie-like, demented shell of a human I’ve ever resembled. I don’t know how anyone got any sense out of me (as I occasionally mumbled, “I’m sorry, I’m just so tired.”) and by god I wish I could’ve explained myself! We need to be very switched on in my job and are held accountable for mistakes, which are actually broadcast in an email at the end of the week. I’ll tell ya what, ‘Rosie’ was a pretty popular girl’s name in the old Error Book over the weeks to come!

I know we all hear about pregnancy knocking you out, but I just don’t think it’s made clear enough to women who haven’t experienced this that you will be tired in a way you have never known. That tiny bean of a baby will take you for all you’ve got, interrupting any rest you do get with the immediate, constant need to pee, so do take it easy. It probably wasn’t the best timing, then, that we received our good news only 3 days before moving house to be in a more baby-friendly, country area. I pried my eyes open with toothpicks by day, packed by night, and was ready to die by Moving Day. We were very lucky to have our mothers helping us who were first given the shock of their lives, then forbade me from carrying anything heavy or any serious scrubbing with strong cleaning products. I slipped away on the first day of the move for a doctor’s appointment, eager to hear that I hadn’t drowned my unborn in alcohol. The doctor laughed and said, “When I was pregnant.. No, I won’t tell you stories about drinking,” which I suppose was reassuring. The nurse’s office was another story, altogether.. I went in to smash out those first blood-tests and left over half an hour later, not before hearing all about my attendant’s children, ex-husband and his ‘crazy’ partner. She asked me nothing about myself but did give an expectant and resounding “thank you!” whenever I politely agreed that everybody is evil. Through her bad teeth and rich, ocker accent, she mentioned a few too many times that she was surprised she got this job and didn’t really know what she was doing. When we finally appeared to have finished and my thoughts went to Ben and Mum waiting for me, she continued to yammer-on as she slowly wrote further info on my blood-filled tubes. She marked down the time and was almost surprised to find we’d been there so long, admitting, “I don’t wanna bring in the next one. They’re all Asians.” At my shocked look, she amended, “Oh, nah, I don’t mind ‘em. There are just so many around here.” Ah, right. That’s much better. “Well,” I belatedly told her, “Must be going. I’m moving house, today.” Instead of lying and changing my identity, I also told her where to and she delightedly realised, “We’ll be neighbours!” Oh, goody.. Apparently, I’m on the better sound of town, though. Shocker! (Hey, if she hates Asians, then I can hate on the plebs.)

Among the things that I shouldn’t have done to my baby, in our early days of trying, I wanted to keep up with our friends and went on a ride at Moomba that span upside down and around. I was ill for hours afterwards and even the now oddly strong-smelling grass made me sick. Guess I wasn’t such a pussy, afterall! But no, that’s nothing to be proud of. Sorry, Baby.

Up until the 12-week ‘safe-zone’, we decided to share our joyous bundle of news with direct family, only. We told Dad at a party and his silence only lasted until his first guest arrived. Pointing at the unsuspecting newcomer, he asked, “Can I tell him?”
“Fine..” We could see how this was gonna go! Within days, my uncle and cousins were sending their congratulations and then felt awkward when they learned that we weren’t actually sharing, yet (God, Dad – Couldn’t you even tell them to keep your secret-spilling a secret?). I’m just glad I decided to tell my own sister over the phone instead of in person when I realised she wasn’t attending Dad’s party, that day. Clearly, if I hadn’t told her, he would have!

The growing group in the know all asked how I was feeling and I boasted that I hadn’t been sick.. Which was true until about week 7, when I began to feel nauseous from sun up ‘til sun down and couldn’t explain to one of my curious workmates why my appetite had suddenly become ferocious (“because when I don’t eat biscuits all day, I wanna vomit in your faces!”). Fortunately, there was never any puke to explain, but the nausea went hard for weeks. The sheer sight of steamed vegetables made me ill. Vegetables! “What’s wrong with you, Baby? Don’t you know what’s good for you?! Enough of this meat and carb diet.. Mama’s butt can’t take it.”

As a reward to the onset of Ill-fest, I also had my first scan at week 7. The little tot really did look like a kidney-bean, as they say – not even a tater-tot, yet! There was little to remark on at this preview, but it was pretty cool to see the ‘primitive’ heartbeat. (I will advise the inexperienced pregnant at this point, make a record of your test dates, last period dates and weigh yourself before appointments, because I never seem to have these answers ready!)
I had to start work late on account of this ‘ah, medical appointment..’ and grew nervous about the time when a queue banked-up at the exit gate. Either someone didn’t know how to insert their card or the machine was broken, but no-one cared to investigate in the rain for the first 5 minutes. The woman sitting second in line finally got out to help, first speaking to Driver 1, then inspecting the machine, then staring out into the distance (and, repeat). I called reception and was assured a gatekeeper would assist us. This time for reflection helped me remember that I hadn’t actually grabbed a medical certificate, so I left my car and dashed back inside, hoping that the girls at the desk could help me. The queue in reception was worse than the exit and the moment I got indoors, the cars naturally started to move, again. I could see the gatekeeper looking confusedly at my abandoned car, so I blurted (to no-one in particular), “Sorry, that’s my car!” and ran back outside to assure the car detective I’d only be a moment. Though my car was out of the way, its disorderly position wouldn’t stand and I was forced to park the damned thing again, after which I ran back through the rain and huffed and puffed at the girls at the desk who were ignoring me. In just 10 minutes, I’d gone from feeling like a well-put-together, respectable mama to looking like an absolute psychopath. At least I got my certificate and was on my (sort-of) merry way.

I was very concerned that work would clue-on to my mysterious appointment and that people would notice my wardrobe had suddenly grown quite small. Gone was anything that cinched-in at the waist, for although I didn’t look pregnant yet, I did look like I’d eaten 20 cheeseburgers every morning (which wasn’t far off with my new and improved appetite. I normally love to eat, but it became a chore very quickly). Ben downloaded a pregnancy app on his phone (funny boy) to track our progress and in week 9, he told me, “You will be experiencing extreme mood swings.”
I agreed, “Omigod! – I was just about to tell you what a crazy bitch I was at work, today!” ( Again, sorry, workmates.)

For the first-time pregnant, there is a lot of research to do and decisions to make and I have personally found it overwhelming. When registering online for my hospital of choice, for instance, I was thrown by the first question, “What type of care do you wish to receive?” Um.. The good kind? My options were share care, midwifery group or obstetrician. I barely understood what any of these meant and snapped the laptop shut to deal with the problem, nearly brought to hormonal tears as I was. One benefit of starting our family in our thirties, though, is that a lot of people we know and trust already have children, and they are all more than willing to offer help, advice and unwanted baby goods (score!). I am grateful for all that people have to offer, but you definitely have to go with your gut and listen to your own body. I still do weight training at the gym and lift over 10kg, contrary to medical advice, but I was doing this before pregnancy and it still feels right; I’ve reduced the weights a little and I do get breathless more easily, but this simply means taking a rest. Although I have personally preferred not to drink, I am hearing everywhere that a little alcohol is perfectly fine. I did also get some very good advice from a masseuse, recently. A side effect of not being able to use my stomach muscles is a very sore lower back, so as this perfect stranger pulled down my undies and rubbed my butt, she also suggested that I start looking at day care centres now. “Put your name on a few lists and ask for 5 days, because you never know what will suit you when you return to work. If a spot opens up and you’re not ready, tell them to give it to the next person and put you back at the top. I know a woman who waited until she had the baby before she started looking, but you’ll find you’re too busy. Now, this woman only has two months to go before starting work and she hasn’t found a day care.” Noted!

By 12 weeks, the nausea had certainly eased up and now I can’t wait to get right into my second trimester. Once I’ve got that beautiful belly, I can switch to maternity wear and (hopefully) won’t have to just sneakily undo my pants at work (then forget to do them back up when I leave my desk). Despite the niggles of the first trimester, it has been a very pleasant experience. I am constantly surprised by the widespread joy and excitement this little bun in the oven incites. I’m well aware that I am just the vessel for the little prince or princess to come, however, and am enjoying all the attention before I am finally, and fairly, sidelined. Mama out.