Whoops! I’ve been a little late in coming in here and showing off the latest addition to our crazy family, but… After 5 years of contemplating, 41 weeks in the baking, and a 12+ hour labour, THE WORZEL can now be unveiled!

Born on 4 Feb, seven excruitatingly long days late, and now nearly three months old… here’s Breaca! (aka Bree, Lily Bug, Boo, Bug-a-Lugs, it goes on…)

Week One

Week Five & Six

Week Nine

That’s all for now, the little sproggin has woken, and is making grunty hungry noises through the monitor.  Speaking of hungry, I could really go a cheese toastie right now…

Btw, I really was convinced in those last couple weeks of pregnancy that I was simply full of gas and no baby at all.  In fact, with the way the Lily Bug farts, I still wonder if I was really full of gas all along, and am now proud mother to a baby-shaped gas bubble.

Yeah, it was a false alarm.

Have decided that now is a good time to renew layout, but in the midst of this I’m experiencing some of the worst pain I’ve ever had since giving birth to Char.

I think The Worzel is trying to kill me.

Periodically, someone in the household dares to ask if I’m in labour. Yes. No. Maybe? I can’t feel contactions because all I can feel is intense lower back pain, with alarming twinges of sharp piercing agony that radiates through me whenever The Worzel wriggles. Maybe this is labour. Or maybe this child inside of me has grabbed a fistful of spinal nerve and is twisting it around and around her fingers…

Then again, perhaps I just need to do a good poo?

One thing that seems to be for sure, is that there’s no point timing anything because the pain is contant.
Well, we’ll find out one way or another, at some point through the night/weekend/rest of the month.

Yup, I’m still carting around this little Worzel inside me, and despite how much I’ve quacked on about hoping she’ll come a tad early, I’m now keeping my fingers crossed that she’ll hold off on arriving until after Monday.  I have plans to go to the pools on Monday.  The craving to submerge myself in water is stronger than my cravings for fruit and frozen ice.  Of course, knowing my luck this will now work as reverse psychology and I’ll find the only pool I’ll get to splash about in on Monday is a birthing one!

 Well, a pool’s a pool I guess.  Except one will also be accompanied by contractions.

Had a cool day at Cheltenham beach on Monday, but this heat has now sapped away my will to do much else except to sit around and play Monopoly with Char.  Now that the bedrooms are re-arranged and whatnot, I’ve burnt out like an old rock has-been and have now become rather sloth-like.  Which is probably why The Worzel is now lying in a wonderful posterior position which strikes pain into my lower back each time she moves.  It’s like she’s resting against a nerve.  Hmm.  Getting on my nerves already huh? *rolls eyes at pathetic wit*

 In other news - and I’m surprised I haven’t let this cat out of the bag already - we have a name for the sproggin!  After months of deliberating, we’ve collectively settled on a name which went straight to number one as soon as it made it’s debut on the charts. 

 Breaca.

 There’s a double meaning to this one.  Originally it was Brekka, which was J’s choice of a middle name (inspired by a speedway midget chassis).  Then he bought me the last of Manda Scott’s ‘Boudica’ series and the name Breaca fell out of the page.  Brekka.  Breaca.  Similar. Right?  And according to Manda Scott at least, Breaca is a derivative of Boudica, whose name is in turn a derivative of the war goddess Boudig which relates in turn to the great goddess Briga (Bridget).  Or something upon those lines.  Celtic.  Lovely.  And not entirely in relation to the framework of a car.

And now, because I’ve never been so keen to flaunt myself about as I am now that I have a big fat pregnant belly, here’s the latest Buddah Belly update at 38 weeks…

It’s 12am, hot and stuffy as hell and my feet are so swollen they feel like great puffy clubs. My feet are usually kinda long and bony, and my toes long and skinny. Now, even my ankle bones have well and truly disappeared and my toes are like chubs.

Meh. Pregnancy. I’m stalling on going to bed because I can’t stand the restlessness. As mentioned in the previous post, it’s been hard sleeping with all this baby inside of me, digging limbs into my lungs. Sitting up every few minutes to try and draw in that elusive deep breath, and thus disturbing Jarrod’s sleep. The poor lad wakes each time I move, asking if I’m alright. I’m looking forward to the time when I can answer that with “actually I think I’m in labour” so I can get this pregnancy dealio over and done with and have my body back already! Might still not be able to sleep, but at least I should be able to breathe!

Or maybe it’s the heat that’s making me wake gasping every time I drift off? Last night I managed to sleep because the weather was refreshingly cool, but I doubt I’ll be so lucky tonight.  *grumble grumble*

Anyhoo I figured I’d take this moment to post some of the pics Char took of my nephew and I on New Years Eve.  He’s going through an emo moment which his parents hate, but aw, it’s so cuuute…

There we go, nothing much, just an excuse to write up a post (two days in a row. Wow.) and say “look I still have my Bauhaus t-shirt!” which I might add, did a reasonable job of minimising the 36 week baby belly?

Now if only I could find something that could minimse my 37 week feet…

We’re a family who are fantastic for doing things at the last minute.  For months I’ve griped about getting The Worzel’s room ready, and yet until a week ago we’ve done nothing much about it.  Up until a week ago, the spare room remained filled with Jarrod’s speedway memorabilia and his lifetime’s supply of odds and ends.  I began having nightmares about trying to find a space to put the bassinet while in the midst of labour.

 Then the weekend before Christmas, a start was finally made (after I stressed to Jarrod “mum will come over on Christmas day and ask to see the baby’s room, and there won’t be one!”)  It looked as if I might be able to start shifting the baby gear our of our room at last! 

Following Christmas I had a sudden epiphany.  Why not move Char into what was to be The Worzel’s room, and shift The Worzel into her old room?  It makes for twice the last-minute workload, but what the hell - if a back must be broken and a disc slipped, why not do it good and proper?!

Jarrod was sceptical.  And for good reason.  Two thirds of Char’s room was still filled with toys she outgrown years ago.  Dig down deep enough into that wardrobe, and we’d probably find a well-preserved mammoth, half a dozen lost lunch boxes and the library book I was billed for two years back.

But being pig-headed and adamant that this was a fantastic idea, I hauled Char into her room and forced her to help me decide what she could give away, and pack up the rest for transferral down the hall.  

Two hours later, I sat head in hands, despairing over how I could ever be so stupid and ‘how the hell will we ever get to the bottom of it all?  I think it was the “I told you so” expression on Jarrod’s face that forced me to continue plodding on.  ( And perhaps the realisation of “if I could get through all that pricing in the containers at work each week, I can get through this!  Damn it!”)

 After a week of chipping through the many layers of our excavation site, a breakthrough was made.   By me.  Char had long deserted me in favour of hanging out with her cousin who had come to stay.  Eurika.  Everything was bagged, tagged, and ready for burial.  Eh, removal.

Now Char is in her new room, The Worzel’s bassinet is set up in her room, and I at last can stop with the re-occuring nightmare of going into labour without having a room to bring the little sproggin home to.  (Actually the bad dreams have stopped mainly because I can no longer SLEEP!  There’s so much baby in my belly I can barely breathe.  And thus each time I manage to drift off through the night, I wake gasping for air.  Urggh…) 

Now then, this pregnancy dealio is really un-fun.  I know there’s still three weeks until DD, but damn it, it’s time for this Worzel to GET THE HELL OUT OF ME ALREADY!  

PS: This was the last photo our camera will ever take, as it has now decided to f*@! out on us. Now, I’m once again uttering “okay little Worzel, you can’t come out yet. We’re not ready…”

I can’t go into labour without a camera!!

DAMN IT!

Wait, I didn’t mean to imply we’ll  be using the camera while I’m in labour.  No one wants to see that… I meant afterwards; when The Worzel is all pink and glowing and looking human and all.  Not all wet and slimey and half hanging out of my…

Yeah.  You get it already.  I’ll shut up now.

…Especially my own.

Tonight Jarrod has taken Char to see her first concert, which is My Chemical Romance, and I’m sitting here all alone - except for the company of several cats and a fridge that is DRIVING ME UP THE WALL WITH IT’S SANITY-SHATTERING DRONE. AAARRGH!  Dear gods, between the sandpaper rasp of “one or two” cats licking themselves in unison, and the fridge that won’t stop making that freakin’ sanity-shattering hive-of-bees-stuck-up-it’s-arse drone, I could only experience the bliss of silence if smack my head hard enough against this desk to knock myself out.

 Can you hear the lambs screaming?  CAN YOU?!

But anyway, what was my point?  Oh yes.  My Chemical Romance.  

Jarrod was about as happy as a slow boiling frog to go along to an emo event packed with 10 billion teeny-boppers a fraction of his age, but I was on to a great line of reasoning.  Well, I reassured the lad, at least it’s better than Justin Timberlake.  

And as it turns out, I’m right!  Because every now and then he calls to play a song down the phone.  Anyway, if all else fails, Gerard Way is hot.  Not that Jarrod will necessarily appreciate this fact.

I wish I could have gone too.  I thought they were pretty good at the BDO (what little I saw of them from waaay over the wrong side of the cattle pen).  And what a way to smuggle a fourth person in for free! In my belly!

Okay I’m really tired and it’s time to pick up the munsters. I just hope they’ve enjoyed it, because we paid twice the price for those bloody tickets on Trade Me! 

Oh, and how could I almost forget? Here’s the pre-gig pictures I snapped before dropping them off…

That girl has great poses.  And eventually that semi-permanent red I chucked in her hair for the occassion will wash out…

(Yeah, somehow I think I’ve started her on to something now.  Good bye natural hair colour I’m guessing.)

Where has my shy lil’ girl gone?  This girl is going to cause me some serious headaches…

Gosh, I’m so full of exciting news, I could wet my pants.

First up, about that rotting carcass… A couple of staff members had to fish it out of the skip and stick it in a wheelie recycle bin to try and stifle the stench until the police could turn up and tell us if it was human or not. (Turns out it was bigger than a dog, which provoked much speculation between a call to the cops in the morning, and their arrival some time that afternoon.)

As much as I kind of hoped it would be human on the chance the ensuing investigation would grant an afternoon off work, it just turned out to be a cow.

There.  Wasn’t that exciting?  I know, I know, now stop trying to hump my leg.

Now for the next ground breaking news story…

A short while ago, our fridge finally gave up the ghost.  It was to be expected, being that it was old enough to defy carbon dating.  So we forked out $600 from our savings and bought a new fridge (hooray for J’s staff price at NL.  Hooray for savings).

A couple of weeks later, that fridge died, so  they sent out a replacement fridge.

This weekend, that fridge also died.  (We’d only had it a week.)

And in the same weekend, so did the washing machine.

Next it was the vacuum cleaner’s turn to pack it in.  Again same weekend.

Oh, and I spent all of Sunday wrapped around the toilet bowl and begging for death in recovery of whatever terrible thing I ate the night before.

The lesson in this? I had a suck weekend, and household appliances hate me.  That’s right folks, I am not destined to be a house-wifey domestic goddess.  Well, that’s a crying shame.

Oh, did I mention the car cost us $650 when we took it to get serviced - somewhere in between fridge two and fridge three packing it in?

But wait! There’s good news!

I saved a lil’ baby bird on Friday night from the deadly clutches of my feline familiars.  And rather than die of shock in the nest I’d made for it in the bedroom, it actually survived to wake me up chirping the next morning! An incredible tale of survival really, considering it’s make-shift nest was made of the last of J’s clean socks.  (See, even when clean, they can be deadly.  That bird defied all odds.)

Of course, as I was leaving to take little Chirpy Chirp Chirpy-Pants (or whatever Char had named it) to the bird lady, Char’s cat shot inside with a dead blackbird in her mouth.  …Which kind of reverses karma a little, especially when the fledgeling was also a blackbird.  Mummy blackbird perhaps? So umm… I guess we’ll be seeing more lil’ dead blackbirds around sometime soon…

Hmm, I remember a nursery rhyme about blackbirds being bloody tasty in a pie?  Just kidding, I’m no slack-jawed Joe.  Really.  But well, Christmas is just around the corner, and now that the grand old Xmas ham we didn’t have got spoiled in the broken fridge, we gotta eat somethin’. Right? Here kitty kitty…

Something dead has been dumped in our cardboard skip at work.  It’s in a black rubbish bag.  No one quite has the guts to get close enough and find out what it is.  Myself included.  Of course it’s unlikely to be anything much more than a dog someone couldn’t be bothered burying, but if by some slim chance it turns out to be human, does that mean we’ll get the rest of the week off work while police investigate? I could really do with the break…

There is a bird outside in the willow tree that keeps whistling the first line of the Barbie Girl song.  Honestly, I thought I was deluded too, until J asked me tonight, ‘have you heard that bloody bird whistling Barbie Girl?’

Least it’s no longer whistling the beep my washing machine makes when it’s off-balance.  Or a cell phone.  …The amount of times I used to run around looking for my phone before I realised the noise was coming from the tree.

My dearly beloved other-half is cooking chilli sausage, baked beans and eggs.  Dear gods, the last time he ate this, he spent the night farting out little nuclear bomb bursts.  I was hoping to get some action tonight (yes, my big pregnant belly is almost impossible to resist *note sarcasm*) but I think the closest to action I’m gonna get is running, gagging, out of the room throughout the night.  Hell, if his arse is gonna be anything like the last time, I might just sleep on the couch.

I’ve just had a realisation.  He’s not eating Fart Food because he enjoys it.  He’s eating it because it’s a Callie Repellant.

Well mister, I hope the 3am gut ache is worth it.