First Family Holiday with Our Number One 1 Year Old

Mornington. Where the beaches are plenty and the café life, booming. Perfect spot to have a dalliance.. Or sit outside a motel room while your baby sleeps.  This was the venue of my first family holiday, so whilst there was more structure than dallying, fun was had and memories made.

Day 1.
Arrived at the motel and realised one puny room between the three of us would indeed be a challenge. That problem was yet a distant night terror though, as we tended to our first point of business – showing 1 y.o . James the beach. He’d last seen it at 6 weeks old when his hobbies included screaming and pooing, and as he now loved playing with water, we were excited to see his reaction. Hes been trialing facial expressions which don’t always fit the scene, so I shouldn’t have trusted his look of disgust. Excitement overtook him when we reached the water and he struggled in my arms to splash with hands and toes. We were fully dressed for a look-in, so Mum got sandy and soaked, but this was luckily of no concern to James.
Our day was quickly wrapped with a cuppa and grocery shopping and we returned to that little motel room with a mission to Get a Boy Down. As per the home routine, we fed James first then popped him in the cot where he was instructed to go to sleep happily while we ate our dinner. He misheard the plan, so we spent a speechless meal behind closed curtains pretending we didn’t notice his head popping up 2 feet away, yelling out to us. Ben and I exchanged one of those new-parent looks (which I’m starting to understand will recur for the next 40 years) of, “I have no idea how to stop this,” and after waiting it out another 15, allowed him to hop into bed with us for Operation: Watch Movie.. “Yeeeah,” we whispered. “He’ll just lay back and chill and when he passes out, we’ll watch undisturbed to our hearts’ content.” Or he’ll crawl on the bed and our faces, natter endlessly, push all the laptop buttons and try to unplug it. Riiight! Next plan! The kid went back in the cot while we left the room, as we would at home.. Except there were no other rooms to go to, so we walked up and down the motel driveway in view of the other guests, looking insane (especially since we hip-checked each other while we walked, to amuse ourselves). When the whining stopped, Ben decided, “We’re going out to dinner, tomorrow. I’m not spending another night of our holiday eating a microwaved meal silently in the dark.” On that apt, ridiculous image, we laughed the deranged laughter of tired, relieved, completely bat shit crazy parents.

Day 2.
Our little Water Boy did not know what was coming to him when we took him for a proper go at the beach. He thought the sand was as good as it gets – good for playing and good for eatin’. Ben gave him a spade as a distraction, which he accepted as a giant spoon and after a few scoops to sustain him, he set to work cleaning the beach.  He passed me a twig, a feather and a stone which were really messing the place up (and were handed to me again when accidentally set aside). We earned ourselves a paddle in the shallows and James could not believe how much better the water was than that sand crap. He has taken to throwing himself on his back in excitement and got a bit of a shock with his mouthful of water when he tried this before I could stop him. I whooshed him over the surface like Superman, truly cementing his love for the sea. The classless kid was entranced by his first sight of seagulls which he chased with slow persistence, crawling head-first into the waves. I felt disoriented watching the little red suit and hat from above as he plodded in all directions. When little teeth started chattering, it was time to learn the hell of cleaning sand out of a baby’s butt with cold water. James screamed like I’d dragged someone else’s kid into the toilets and I held him down for a nappy while waiting to be arrested.

Day 3.
They say to eat breakfast like a king, which is something I don’t take lightly. Literally... We stopped at the lovely looking D.O.C. on morning of Day 3 for the explicit purpose of inhaling some bacon, eggs and other sludgy delights. “I’m having poached eggs for once,” I declared (while inspecting manicured nails), “cos I’m tiiiired of sharing scambled with James.” When the menu came, however, we read from an anticlimactic list of paninis and lacklustrely chose the pancetta with fried eggs. Well, son. I am not ashamed to tell ya that that little sanga was one of the best damn breakfasts I’ve ever had. The sunny side eggs were cooked to perfection and the pancetta was quality, salty goodness. I also like how the bread didn’t cut my mouth (like some ‘artisan’ types). I accidentally ordered James the fruitiest fruit toast on the market which sated his little sweet tooth, so everyone was happy.

We perused a mid-week market on Main St after breaky and I stopped for a squiz at a crystal stall. I was tickled to overhear an unabashed request “for something to heal a broken heart and to treat a sleeping disorder, which is a result of that broken heart?” Equally amusing was the stall-keeper’s prompt and confident answer, “Yes, I have this Sleeping Kit, here, which will also help with the broken heart.” Sold! (Her next sale was of a clear quartz leather necklace to me. I love that shit. Not sure if it’ll help my heart but the weight of it hurt my neck, so it did have some effect.)

We visited friends who live nearby in the arvy, enjoying a drink on their spacious deck while James stormed their sandpit and ravaged their toys. He was happily pushing a ride-on along when the slightly older boy, Reeve, tried handing him a truck. He dismissed the toy with a flick of the hand and a grunt, but Reeve missed the signal and tried again. Well, I have never seen such silent contempt from a one-year old as when I witnessed James’s response! He stopped, took the truck from Reeve and, with deliberate, soul-destroying eye-contact, placed it down firmly before continuing on his way. Good god, kid. Make a friend. We were ready to leave and I had James in my arms when sweet little Reeve also gave him a blackberry, which he did accept..  And squish in his hand before rubbing it all over my hand and across my beige bra. Ugh… I saw that coming a mile away and still allowed him to take it. Almost made it out alive. It was interesting to see how far a single blackberry could go, though, I must admit.

Day 4.
There was a time when Ben and I frolicked on the Peninsula as young and free romantics. On our final day, we took James to the place where we were married 5 years ago, the Briars in Mt Martha. We stood in the spot where we exchanged vows and clicked our heels together 3 times, but when we opened our eyes, we were still parents. Nnnnooo, parenthood's alright.. S’pose. It was very lovely sitting in our reception venue, which also functions as a restaurant, and enjoying a cuppa while we reminisced. From there, we were homebound, ready to bask in the memories of family-time from separate rooms of the house.

Ben and our spy kid outside Josephine's, the Briars.

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.

All Play & No Work: Crashing Ben's Christmas Party.

This Christmas tale begins with a certain work function for a certain husband. That husband.. Was mine! *Scary music.* [I get confused over genre.]

Last Friday night, I was invited to catch an old train out to Woodend [ooh, this does sound scary] for Ben’s company Christmas party. Strictly informed that latecomers would not be waited on, my time-conscious husband hustled me to the meeting point 10 hours pre-departure time with the promise of a drink. He clipped my heels along to the upstairs bar at Spencer St, where we would watch for our group like hawks, but the perfect plan (and Ben) deflated when we found the bar had morphed into a Hungry Jacks. While I was still gathering my bearings, Ben quickly sniffed out another bar and back downstairs we went.

                                          Cheeky workmates.

A queue finally gathered beside the ‘Red Rat’(tler) train which silently awaited our breathe of life. Ben thoughtlessly brushed his fingers over the old girl and said of his handful of dust, “Yep. She’s authentic, alright.” I was shepherded away from the ‘big boss’ in the queue, so an to avoid an awkward train ride, and our cabin was finally comprised of Ben’s own department, their manager and his wife. I had some momentary concern over the wife, who looked a lovely, Julie Andrews type, but my inhibitions were lost once plied with liquor on an empty stomach.

A young man, comedian by day, came by with some very loose, deadpan safety instructions:
“Don’t lean too far out the window.”
“How far is too far..?”
“Don’t stick anything important out. Maybe just your head.”
This seeming to conclude our important warning, it was asked, “Where's the closest toilet?”
Our host pointed, “There are toilets down that end, and toilets down that end, and sometimes one in the middle. But ya can’t use all of ‘em.”
“Well, which can’t we use?!”
“Mm, not sure. They’ll be locked.”
Great!
Someone suggested that it’d be easier to pee out the window and I warned, “Just don’t stick your dick out too far!” then again became hyper aware of the manager’s wife. I felt better when I later heard a crude story from Julie Andrews herself: She'd had a garage sale and her brother brought over some things to sell. "I’ve always felt bad that a little old lady bought his collection of glasses when one of them said, ‘How many donuts do you think I can fit on my dick?’ Who knows, though? – Maybe she only bought the clean ones to get that glass.”

Our pre-dinner train nibbles were finally brought out a little after 8pm, by which time I was ravenous. I greedily took two sandwiches quarters from the first tray and proceeded to slop mustard pickle down my top (all watched closely by the very presentable Mary Poppins!). I went to clean myself up in one of functional toilets (which could be this way, that way or somewhere in the middle) and had that all too familiar sense of ‘that’d be right’ when the bathroom stocked sanitiser, but no water. I did what I could with paper towel, cleaned my hands with the gel (which felt oddly soapy..) then noticed a weird, round, antique contraption secured against the wall. I pushed down a lever at the top and, voila! – Down came a sink. My top cleaned-up nicely and dried-off, successfully quashing my look of ‘sloppy bitch’ (at least in regard to my dress).
Clearly having received the same vague bathroom directions as the rest of us, a large, loud character popped his head into our cabin and asked, “Is this the bathroom?”
The joke was repeated as he passed by the other cabins and met with the same shrill laughter that we produced. Ah, toilet humour. Never gets old.

Another visitor to our cabin was the company boss who stood in our doorway speaking seriously, completely unaware that there was a streamer hanging across his head. At the time, this was the funniest thing I'd ever seen and my hysterical reaction caught on to one of Ben's workmates, whose subsequent laughter rekindled my own, and back and forth we went (again, the streamer-headed gentleman remained in the dark, but I'm sure my apparent nonsensical behaviour will win Ben a raise. I guess it wouldn't have helped, anyway, to explain, "Don't worry, I'm not crazy. I just think you look ridiculous.").

We arrived at Woodend after 9 and jiggled our ravenous bellies into the warm, country pub for dinner. Main meal aside, I was finally pleased that my husband loathes dessert – Although I’d normally be too coy to order sweets for one, alternate plates were placed wordlessly before us and I drunkenly laid into Ben’s red velvet cake and my lemon meringue without a sober thought of calories. Delicious (and a little sickening, once I took a moment to breathe). I had a chat over dessert with a transsexual employee who, I thought interesting, continued on in her warehouse career despite the now overt femininity. Not that work should be gender specific or that transsexuals must be mentioned, but hey, these things still twang in my tiny mind.
Another woman returning to her table with sweat upon her brow, mentioned only that it was rather hot in the tiny room designated for dancing. All I heard was ‘dance,’ and asked, “Are you dancing? Have you just been for a dance? Do you wanna dance? Dance? Spinning? Jumping? Bopping? Dance?” The poor thing (and complete stranger) begrudging asked that I wait while she finished her drink, then led me back out to the groove floor where I did m’ thang like a maniac.

Back on the train, I realised my hopping and bopping had lost me an earring. In love as I was with my spangly accessories, my hard, anti-hoarding line overrode this and out went the other earring, through the window and onto the tracks. Let some kid find it and wonder how the hell it got there. Once sober, however, I sadly realised that I could’ve simply phoned the pub and ask that they collect my earring from the small square of floor where I was fairly certain it would be. But, thinkin’ and drinkin’ never are one. Bye-bye, darling earrings. Go separate ways and live your lives. Despite this devastation, my dancing career wasn’t over. Our group walked the length of the train to check out what they called, ‘the Cattle Car,’ a barbed wire lined carriage for dancing. Despite copious amounts of alcohol, people only stood along the walls, indeed as dull as cattle. I asked Ben, “Dare me to dance through everybody like a dickhead?!”
“Yeah, whatever. I don’t care.”
“Oh.. Well, I’m gonna do it, anyway. Woo!” and off I went. I did rouse the masses for a moment there, which was a small reward for my self-inflicted embarrassment.

When the Red Rat hit the city, our proceeding journey home was quite the story in itself. Thinking we’d do better than the free bus that might’ve left us about a 10 minute walk from our house, we trod into the city to stalk the streets for a cab. Without a single vacancy light in sight, Ben stomped down the road in palpable frustration and attempted to wave down the unlighted cabs. Well aware of taxi drivers’ caution when it comes to big, white, drunken males in the middle of the night, I asked Ben to hang back and let me do the scouting. Still angry and determined, however, he didn’t move far from my side and I’m sure the drivers were aware of our trick. Soon enough, we’d walked from Spencer St to Flinders St Station, where we noted not a single cab in the rank. We were further surprised to see that the trains were still running at that time and checked for our own line’s departure. With only two minutes to spare, we ran to our platform and managed to catch a very direct ride home, transforming our mission from utterly hopeless to practically perfect. Perfect, it would've been, if the station announcements on the train had been correct! Exhausted and intoxicated, we paid no attention to the outside world and when our station was called, Ben tried to pull open the doors but saw only tracks where there should’ve been a platform. Confused, we figured we must still be one stop from home, but didn’t recognise the next station, either, as part of our run. A kind stranger who asked of our destination regretfully informed us we'd passed it three stations ago. We’d exchanged a one-minute walk from our own stop for a 40 minute trek through the suburbs! Just to top it off, as we approached the first main road, a lit-up taxi passed us by, never wise to our existence. Ben, who had been utterly wrecked on the train, was clearly furious over this nightmarish, added leg to our journey, so I accepted a silent end to our raucous evening. I also knew I wouldn't make it home in my heels and walked the filthy footpath barefoot.

Hey, at least our night wasn’t over when we stepped off the train, right? This was one of the best Christmas parties I’ve attended (and it wasn’t even mine! Maybe that’s the secret) so it was well worth the very brick-like legs when I finally hit my bed. Just fantabulous. Merry f’ing Christmas, y’all.

Closet Bogans

Approaching Etihad to finally cash in on our 6 month held tickets, last night, the crowd suddenly split in two. I chose right over left which led us directly to our seats, confirming that I am completely psychic and should be employed on a true crime show (tomorrow).

Act 1, for this long awaited show, was a man whose lyrics consisted purely of his own name: Kid & Rock. Sharing only the Americana of our key performer, he was otherwise the savoury, selfless man’s antithesis. We were bombarded by pics of the Kid with a slathering of the bootilicious and then, to draw on our mindless emotion for the sake of his finale, a barely relevant projection of the late Nelson Mandela. He changed hats several times throughout the set, sporting an ‘American Badass’ cap as he lit up a cigar and chugged some whiskey, an unconvincing image in the fully lit, half empty stadium.  As the disinterested crowd still hunted their seats, I can at least give the kid full credit for his unwavering energy. I almost felt sorry when he threw his arms in the air, right and then left, which was supposed to be met with screams of, “Kid! [Kid].. Rock! [Rock],” but smacked straight into silence. Energy or no, however, my impatience for the main act was successfully amped by the time he was done! The stadium crew finally came to cleanse his smut from the stage, which was nicely designed to resemble the hood of a car, true to our main man’s open road theme.

Watching the last of the ticket holders trickle in, I was cruelly amused by the sight of some larger ladies after Ben had predicted, “There are gonna be some middle-aged mamas throwing their giant panties onto the stage, tonight!” Ancient women in their ancient tour tees carefully cluttered down the stairs, one poor dear spilling her drink at every step despite holding on to the shoulders of every seated person she passed. Bums found seats, lights went down and the roar of the crowd signalled the entrance of.. Bon Jovi! - Singing a slow song I’ve never heard. It was quite the anti-climax. Next up was You Give Love a Bad Name (which Ben and I love to repeat back at home as “BAED name!”), however, and all was forgiven. The sea of middle-aged creakingly rose and a lady before me danced with a typical mumsy butt-sway and head toss. By track 3, another slowy, the ladies before us looked around and we all giggled in unspoken agreement, ‘We don’t wanna stand on these old feet any longer than we have to. Sitting time!’ and back down we went. It was going to be a very comfortable show!

Bon Jovi was just as lovely as you’d imagine. His big, frequent smile emanated kindness and his denim jacket, with stars and stripes at the waist, was much more convincing of a good-boy image than were Kid Rock’s attempts at bad-boy. Without a trace of narcissism, he clearly loved his fans and thrived on his crowd’s attention, busting some eccentric moves which Ben deemed as ‘a road to Jagger-town’ to cheers of approval. Having just come from our nephew’s third birthday party, where he’d persisted in crushing a green marshmallow into his mouth and hands because I’d been laughing so hard, I was reminded of this child-like propensity for silliness upon encouragement. I could imagine Bon Jovi saying, “and now look at THIS, mum!” as he strutted about like a chicken. When the band seamlessly detoured into The Rolling Stones’ Jumping Jack Flash, I sniggered over Ben’s earlier Jagger prediction.

For some time, now, whenever we’d hear Bon Jovi on the radio, Ben and I would exchange a ridiculously serious look and a nod, and sing along intently with our best redneck accents. Despite this good-natured marital fun, I never considered myself a fan, but when I heard of their upcoming tour, I realised, “Shit, yeah, that’d be rool good, ‘n’ stuff. I know all the werrrds,” and demanded Ben buy tickets as my birthday ‘surprise.’ I learned, on Saturday night, just how well so many other Aussies know Bon Jovi’s lyrics, the chorus of the crowd drowning out the man and his band during every classic tune. I could see how frustrating it might become to perform all the ‘old stuff,’ for this reason, and forgave them for excluding one or two of my favourites (even though they could’ve gone out with a bang by ending on Blaze of Glory. ‘Sall I’m sayin’). I also learned that I cannot escape the fact of my fandom, after emitting an involuntary squeal over the intro of Bad Medicine. That was a good one to old-lady-dance to.

Just as the band had begun right on schedule, in accordance with their middle aged crowd’s sensibilities, they didn’t have us waiting long for an encore following their obligatory false finish. Which unheard classic would they reward us with for our two minute wait?! Softly, Jon Bon attempted to treat us with a lovely, acoustic opening for Livin’ On a Prayer.. and was again overridden by his fans, who altered the tempo to its traditional speed. The good-natured guy appeased his offbeat followers and joined us in an old school, rock style version.

Barring the mind-numbing opening act, the show was just as fun as expected (LOTS of). It was fitting that I was horribly sore from the gym, yesterday, and hobbled my way out of the stadium with all the other old girls. This is the only show I’ve been to where the women’s bathroom has actually run out of toilet paper; based on the sheer volume of female fans, I am now less embarrassed to count myself among ‘em. I only wish I’d brought along my pair of giant undies to throw in approval.

Thanks for my ‘surprise,’ Benny.

                              

                                 A sea of light, at Bon Jovi's request.

Ben, feigning interest in Kid Rock.

Bourbon cheers.

Wine on the Mind: Yarra Valley '13.

“Started out.. Just drinkin’beer.”  Actually, it was wine (then beer), but the nips were gettin’ bigger.

The time had come for our annual excursion of organised drunkery, this weekend, so we piled into Amber’s  ’63 EH Holden, built for road trippin’, and revved our way over to ‘Vintage House,’ Healesville. Straight-framed, straight-laced driver Bill collected us from our accommodation, and it was all aboard the fun bus of Yarra Valley Winery Tours. Promised a friendly dog and a friendlier winemaker at our first stop, Millers, the dog became acquainted with our crotches, indeed. When our wine man finally, begrudgingly appeared, however, he paid no heed to our persons or our enticing crotches. Amber apologised, “I hope we haven’t come at a bad time,” and was unabashedly told, “I was in the middle of some things.” Wine guy (who was sadly less inviting than his long, reaching eyebrows) skipped the standard offer of his full range of wines and instead asked curtly, “What do you want to try?” We sipped a few awkwardly requested over a crackling radio, and our subsequent purchases still bought us no love. Amber noted the Hawks scarf draped over a railing and asked our new acquaintance if he’d enjoyed the Grandfinal. Our near escape from the inhospitality thus turned into a long-winded history of old mate’s family’s football affiliations. At least we knew the satisfaction of squeezing a little friendliness from a cranky old fart.

There were higher hopes for Round 2 at an old tour favourite - Sticks. True to past experience, our barman was jovial and engaging and happily answered our stupid questions. When Ben described one wine as “a little bit Led Zeppelin and a little bit Hendrix,” wine guy mentioned he’d been thinking of having people write down their own creative descriptions, like such. My description was taken less seriously when I cried from an underdeveloped palette, “This one tastes like a Prima!” That’d be one damned expensive glass of fruit drink.

With lunchtime already upon us, we descended upon Whispering Hills for our third tasting to be followed by our cost-included meal. I wasn't enamoured with the wines there, myself, but the food was to die for! Disappointed when first faced with the simple choices of fish or steak, they proved the tastiest versions of meats and accompaniments that I’d had in a long while. I went the salmon with a pea puree, sweet, spiced beetroot and perfectly crispened potatoes.. Nice work, kitchen peeps.

This is where my busy week at work began to take its toll. The meal heightened my already encroaching fatigue (the barrel of wine may also have had something to do with it), and I spent the remainder of the day struggling to keep my lame-arse, old woman eyes open.  Those lame-arse eyes managed to see the beautiful view when we arrived at Riverstone winery, a beautiful building itself, overlooking the mountains. Judging by the set-up, they were closed in preparation for a wedding, but it was lovely to know a bride and groom were soon be enjoying the same impressive backdrop. There’d be no cold feet with that view.

I perked up a little thanks to the lively host at Coombe Farm, the final winery of the day.  A far cry from our first stop, quick-witted Nicky joked with her customers almost like her livelihood depended on it! While pouring our rosé, she warned in the form of a nursery tune, “This is the reason I have four kids, be careful in the mor-ning.” The woman swore like a trooper and, when spotting an unexpected visitor wandering into her vineyard, chased him with a bottle for our amusement. Now, that’s a reception!
Not surprisingly, this winery was already packed when we arrived. Nicky asked where we hailed from and at the mention of South Gippsland, another tour guide oddly blurted “Fish Creek!” which happened to be the tiny town where Amber and I grew-up. The stout little psychic, decked out in his running suit with a gold chain around the neck and his hair glued to his forehead, asked our driver’s permission, “Can I tell them a joke?” Something so corny it was funny followed, which I have fortunately since forgotten. (Partial to corniness, myself, I may have otherwise repeated it.)

The next tasting was of the cheese variety at Yarra Valley Dairy. Most everything was a perfect flavour explosion, from ash encased goats cheese to a chive infused cream cheese. Unfortunately, we ended on a very stinky, non-refridgerated soft cheese that, to our unsophisticated tastes, bore a little too much ‘old sock’ character and wouldn’t leave our noses for a good while thereafter.

Back at Vintage House, we popped a few bottles that may have been better appreciated sober, and I managed to eat most of a packet of crackers I’d bought from the dairy. We tumbled down to the pub where Ben and Marty befriended every white-haired fellow within elbow’s range. I literally elbowed one old dude behind me who announced that I must be the new bouncer, so his nearby mates entered a phony squabble and asked me to break them up. Funny, country codgers. Amber met up with her ex-step-mother and her partner who live in the area and when I was overcharged for dinner, Glen got up from own his meal to demand my money back, which was very sweet. Usually a comparative health freak, I’d given myself permission to indulge on the finer foods of the the Yarra Valley region. Rather than spending this grant on homemade breads and delicate sweets, however, I went from my packeted cracker gorge to ordering fish and chips for dinner, eating every chip on my plate and some from other people’s. I literally had to be pulled away from the table to stop and we stumbled back to the house for a night of broken, drunken sleep. Our pillows, which seemed lovely and fluffy at first, habitually shifted their stuffing from under our heads and we were all episodically punching them back into shape through the night – except for Marty, apparently, who cleverly folded his over from the start. Another interruption was Ben’s agonised puking, his midnight bathroom whimper heard throughout the house. Poor little fella keeps his body so pure that he threw it out of sorts with a day of abuse!  Somebody also managed to break two wine glasses in the night, which none of us overheard, oddly.

We took breaky at the nostalgic Monroe’s Café, run by the high-spirited gentleman selling raffle tickets at the pub the previous evening. He shook the boys’ hands and confessed, “Your tickets may not have even made it into the draw. I was pretty pissed, last night.” We ate a breakfast for winners, in any case, the scrambled eggs among the most fluffy and yellow I’ve seen.

And now, the dream is over. I will soon forget my lousy pike-out of sleepiness, remembering only the wild times as I overlook the bottles of 2013 and long for the Wino tour of 2014. Thanks for the memories, lads.