Finally! I have wedged J off the computer long enough to install wordpress and begin customising the layout I downloaded. (Like I have the time or energy to create my own from scratch. Pfft.)

I know, I know… The ‘hiatus’ sign was up here for so long, even the graphic I created for it got sick and tired of hanging around and disappeared - leaving nothing behind but a little red X to mark the spot where it once was. It’s a ghost town round here.

But anyway, Not-Quite-Human.net is up and running once more. That’s right folks, the bitch is back! Well, the bitch is now off to bed because it’s taken all night to get this far, and her eyes are hanging out of her head.

Next task is to import the last year’s worth of blog entries I’ve had hosted elsewhere.  And as much as I’d love to say I’ll find some time tomorrow night to come back and continue setting up house again round here, I have antenatal classes to attend. (If you haven’t already heard, I’m mammothly pregnant with sproggin no. 2, and as sproggin no. 1 is 12, it really does feel like I’m doing it all over again for the first time. For J, it is the first time. Trust me, we need these classes. :P)

Goodnight!

After working late night Thursday, J came home dragging his feet and complaining of his aches and pains.

“… my legs are so sore and my back is killing me and I think I have a pinched nerve or something because damn …”

 ”… and at one point I bent over and my back just locked up and didn’t think I could get up again …”

All I could do was stand there grinning like a villiage idiot, chuckling “now you know MY pain!”

I.  Am.  Sore.  Today was the shop’s stock change, and if I thought packing up the hall after our monthly sale was becoming a challenge, the humble fortnightly stock change may well be the straw which will break this camel’s back.

Every last inch of me feels as if it’s been through the tumble dryer twice over.  Imagine mowing your lawns, going on a long hike through the length and breadth of the Waitakere Ranges then coming home to mow the lawns again.  By lunch time.  Now you have an inkling of my pain.

Oh blah blah woof woof, I know what a whinge bag I am, but I’m not exaggerating! I am a pregnant hippo in pain!  I came home from work today and blubbered on to the family about how I can’t bear another day of this.  (Tears and all!)  My pelvis feels as if it is splitting, if ripping out my spine could stop my back from aching I’d fillet myself now, my sciatic nerve almost stops me in my tracks every time I take a step, my legs are stiff from the muscle cramps that I wake to each night…

… But every time I walk past my boss I tell myself to suck it up and stop waddling like a penguin, least I give her the satisfaction of saying “I told you so”.  (Anything but that!)

And then there’s the rapid pulse and heart palpatations that kick in for no apparent reason and make me feel as if I’m spacing out, the shortness of breath that likes to strike when I’m trying to sleep, the heartburn, the… did I mention leg cramps?

Urgh, I really want to enjoy this pregnancy, and for the most part, I am. Really, I am.  Most days, I can handle the aches and pains, knowing it’s all ‘pain with a purpose’ and the baby’s ‘reality kick’ to the ribs reminds me of the aspects of this pregnancy that I enjoy.

But some days (like today), it just hurts so much.  And I can only grin and bear it for so long before I realise the grin is actually a grimace and the continual aches and pains are for the moment, not so bearable after all.  Especially when I grizzle to J and he says “oh dear” in his best sympathetic voice, but in reality has absolutely no idea. He tries to get it, but I don’t think he can really grasp just how exhausted I feel when I say “I can’t endure this anymore”, knowing that I must.  Sometimes the realisation of this almost defeats me.

But there are some fantastic aspects to being pregnant. Like, the weird alien feeling of having the shit kicked out of you from the inside.  :P  Nothing like a good swift boot to the bowels to remind you you’re not alone!

Last night I dreamt my mother was pregnant.  My mother, at the grand old age of ANCIENT, was hugely pregnant and gloating about how much smaller she was through her pregnancy than me.  It’s a dream that has continued to disturb me throughout the day.  And probably always will. *shudder*

In other exceptionally mundane news: Today I finally admitted my size 10 jeans are too tight, and hauled my sorry ass into a comfortable, spacious 12.  Dear Gods.  I’m only touching upon the 15 week point and already I’m shedding sizes like a snake that’s over-indulged on too much hippo.  I’m not sure if it’s really a baby I have in there or a pair of conjoined taniwhas?  Or maybe (and most likely) it’s all the damn-it-I’m-now-30 comfort eating I’ve been doing since, like, two months ago (gotta start these celebrations early y’know).  Whatever.  I want to die.

Tomorrow I will go to Mitre10 and buy a tarpaulin.  Give me another month and I’ll be fitting it quite nicely.

A night or so ago J said, “Mum suggested that when we move to Marton, you can go along to Mainly Music one morning and meet other mums.”

The scary thing is, he seemed really enthused by this notion.

Dumbfounded, I replied,  “yeah I dunno. I don’t do the ‘other mums’ thing. I don’t do the ‘Mainly Music’ thing either.”

He suggested it would be a great way to “network” and “make new friends” and that our wee little Wurzel would “benefit greatly from the activity and social stimulation”. I suggested - through gritted teeth - that he organise a day off during the week so HE can take the sproggin to all those mumsy bubsy activity groups he’s so intent upon.

The thought of trying to ‘fit in’ to such a scene, quite frankly, horrifies me.

Long time, no blog. Life has been hectic.

Not so many weeks ago (yet it feel like forever), our little household decided to uproot ourselves from this West Auckland shoebox, and haul ourselves 800km down the North Island to a lil’ town called Marton.  We’re still here in our AK shoebox, but the wheels at least are turning. (Even if it is just to fall off the wagon and roll down the hill.)

In late June I drove J down to Marton for a job interview and we returned home to find my mother (who was house/pet/daughter-sitting) couldn’t walk.  She’d been that way since the previous day, but hadn’t wanted to alarm us by letting us know.  She insisted this had happened before and that she’d always come right after a few days, but I took her to the A&E where she was prescribed with a “possible stroke” and we were then sent on to North Shore hospital -which was completely overflowing with people on stretchers in the corridors.

Waitakere hosp had closed its emergency department to incoming and diverted everyone to Nth Shore, so it wasn’t the best time for mum to find herself there.  Three days later she was still in a ward waiting for a CT scan, and when she did indeed begin walking again of her own accord, the docs decided she must be fine and sent her home.  We still don’t know whether she’s been having the progressive strokes the doctors suspect have been the case, but perhaps we’ll find out when it happens next time…

Between worrying about mum’s health, working six day weeks, having a compacted wisdom tooth pulled out and my beloved cat Blackie (yeah I know, really original name) nearly put down because of the reoccurrence of a reoccurring condition, I’ve been feeling like life is closing in on me lately.

Since making this decision to move, J’s twice travelled to Palmerston North for interviews. He was offered the first job, but decided he didn’t want it.  The second interview seemed really positive, but yesterday he was told someone else had been chosen for it.  This process of travelling down to Palmerston every few weeks for an interview is getting expensive.  It’s starting to feel as if Fate likes to open doors simply to slam them shut again as we begin to step through.  Whatever. The packing has begun, and hopefully everything else will fall into place.

My 12 week scan on Tuesday revealed that the Little Parasite (whose name we have inexplicably changed to The Wurzel) has the right amount of arms and legs.  That at least, is comforting.

What ever happened to the blossoming glow of pregnancy?  I’ve been looking forward to experiencing all those happy clucky feelings I never experienced the first time around (too busy being an angst teenager) but so far the only parts of me which are blossoming are my boobs and my belly!

I figured I’d defeat morning sickness and tiredness with a positive attitude.  Yup.  The good old mind-over-matter.  Somehow I had completely forgotten that I am a really negative person.  Heh… Kinda threw me out there when I was trying to summon a bit of positivity. Pfft.

And talking myself out of the good old 1st trimester tiredness? Right!  I wake each day feeling like Sisyphus.  Groaning at the eternal task of pushing shit uphill.  Clawing through each day on my hands and knees. Planning little nesting corners where I can sleep through my lunch breaks, and near-crying with the sheer frustration of making every blunder imaginable on the til as I battle to keep my eyes open and my mind and body connected.  Struggling not to throw up all over each approaching customer…

Wait, I’m describing every working day here.  Perhaps with a tad more in the way of tiredness.

I was twice checked over by co-workers for a ‘baby belly’ yesterday.  Donna kept glancing at my stomach with a grin, and as icing to the cake, Mike (who, in a DOOL moment, has returned from the dead) asked if I’d named the “baby-bump” yet.

“Eh? Oh no, this isn’t a baby-bump.  It’s just my belly.”

He spent a moment apologising and trying to backtrack, but it was all good. I’ve been carting around that lil’ pot-belly for my entire life, and I guess no one’s really been that conscious of it before until now.

Though, it does make me think: Maybe I have developed a baby-bump already? After all, I saw a regular customer in the supermarket tonight and as we stopped to chat she was sneaking glances at the belly too.  (Should I be calling it The Belly?) J later agreed my ‘natural pot’ seems to have well, altered shape somewhat.

Good gods, I’m only closing in on eight weeks! Kill me now…

No, I think it’s just that I’ve dumped cravings for fresh fruit salad & spirilina smoothies in favour of chocolate-self saucing pudding and peanut slabs (they’re not really cravings, that’s just my excuse.)

On a plus side, I don’t think my boobs have been this big in a long, long time.

Yes Nicky, to answer the question you posed earlier; I’m pregnant.:P

It was planned, although we didn’t really believe it was going to happen quite so soon…

I’m a little concerned that it’s not actually human.  I mean, the IUD only came out at the beginning of May! (Maybe you didn’t really want to know that?  I’m never quite sure what should and shouldn’t be spoken of in polite society. I just tend to say whatever comes into my head.  Which means, I only speak a few times a day, and it’s usually on the topic of bowel movements.  Or lack of.)

Infact so filled with disbelief was I, that I took three pregnancy tests, gave one to J (his came out invalid.  D’uh), one to my boss (hers was a negative), then asked the doctor for one of their tests in case mine were somehow faulty.

While going over the importance of maintaining optimum nutrition, my doctor described the wee little sproggin within as “a parasite that will take and take and take from you until you have nothing left to give.  And then it will take some more.”  Therefore, little sproggin will from now on be affectionately referred to as ‘The Little Parasite’.

Char’s glad that she’s finally going to get the sibling she’s been nagging on and on and on about for the past 8 of 12 years, although she’s finding it hard to jump with joy at the moment, being that she’s recovering from having her appendix removed.

Recovering rather well on the couch with her feet on the coffee table, her choice of anything to eat/drink/watch, and a minion who materialises beside her to do her bidding whenever she utters “Hey Muuuum…”  Little poo.  The appendicitis dealio was all a convenient excuse to get out of tidying her room.

The fantastically disgusting thing about her surgery is that we now have really graphic and gory photos of her large intestine.  Or whatever that spaghetti bolognase was meant to be.  It was the next best thing to taking the appendix home in a jar. (A doctor suggested we keep it in the freezer as a memento, but we figured one of us would eventually forget and use it in a stri-fry.)

You know, I’m feeling kind of queasy over intestines.  Oh dear gods no… will the Little Parasite leech me of my morbid curiosity?! *drops to knees*  What will I have left?!!

It’s a sad day when I find I’m no longer the spry limber young thing I once was. Yeah I know, I was never too limber to begin with, nor particularly spry. But when it takes nearly as long to stand upright from a cross-legged position as it did to get through the seventh stage of the Dark Angel PS2 game, it’s really only a small matter of time now before I put aside the Subaru and purchase a mobility scooter.  I’ve begun looking into walking frames, and I’m thinking I’ll go for the one with a seat that lifts up to reveal a bed pan. How freakin’ handy is that?!

This aging spiel is one I’ve been on before, but little did I realise that while I was using pancake foundation as a filler for my eye-wrinkles and considering a burka to hide my expanding chin, the joints and ligaments were beginning to wizzen up like gnarled old rubber bands.  If I spend too long sitting on the floor, I have to rise in a series of steps (Step 1: kneel; Step 2: right leg forward; Step 3: Rest.) and then shuffle across the room at a 75% slant until I can at last stand up straight.

I realise I’ve become a complete hypochondriac about it, but I can’t help it.  Ooh, shooting pain down my right leg! Gah, I have sciatica! Must’ve popped a disc when incorrectly bending to pick a peg up from the ground or whatever menial task it was that causes old people to start breaking down.

Mysterious aches and pains are not meant to kick in until I’m well into my dotage.  Of course it’s not a simple case of being unfit. I do shiploads of exercise.  I pace rooms in nervous anxiety on a daily basis. That’s exercise.  I use my go-go-gadget extendable arms and legs to perform the million-in-one tasks that my boss insists must all take place NOW.  That’s exercise.  (Hmm. That’s probably also the cause of all those aches and pains.)  And, most importantly, I have a lateral thigh trimmer which on occasion, I glance at. Glancing is exercise.  For my eyes.  Good enough.

Now to go entirely off-topic, our bloke who does the heavy lifting decided to walk off the job on Thursday. Leaving me with the heavy lifting. Weak little pensioner that I am!   Though, I’m relieved that he’s gone.  Don’t have to put up with his sleazy cheesy little comments and innuendos anymore. Yay! No more, “Mmmm.. Bet you were a bit of a bad girl when you were a teen eh? I can just see you in a bit of goth bondage gear and a studded collar. Mmm…”

Urgh, those mmmmm’s of his were the skin-crawling worst. There’d be the “mmmmm” if he walked past while I was bending to plug in the vaccum cleaner, or an “mmmm” if he caught me leaning over a piece of furniture in contemplation of where to shift it to.  I’d clench my teeth and berate myself for bending over at all with him in the vicinity, but he didn’t need any kind of provocation.  He could be standing across the room silently drinking a coffee, then look over at me holding a pricing gun and go “mmmmm…” as if I were Homer Simpson’s next meal.  Always these things when no one else was around, of course.

Unfortunately his sudden decision to scarper off without notice has left us to try and pick up his slack when we’re already short-staffed. My own work is now two days behind, and with Char going into hospital to have her appendix removed on Thursday, I’m going to need the shoe-maker’s elves to get back on track the following week.  Stress stress stress!

I dreamt I was at work this morning.  Or rather, a nightmare.  Falling further behind on tasksI couldn’t catch up on.  Thankfully the phone rang and woke me up, or I could have hit rock bottom and died.  (Doesn’t that happen if you dream of falling?)

Long time, no update.  I don’t think I can be bothered doing this secret diary of adrian mole crap where I spout on and on about my life.  Then again, the narcissist in me says I can, and so I will…

So, Charlotte is in Nelson for this last week of the school holidays and arrives home tomorrow.  It’s Saturday and Charlotte’s not home - once upon a time this would have meant something. Like, going out and getting shit-faced.  Now being the boring fart I am, it simply means junk food for dinner and whatever’s on telly.  Besides, I’m broke.  My car failed it’s WOF over some trivial little brakes issue.  Guess I’ll be taking the work van to the airport tomorrow…

What else? Oh, I remembered today how once upon a time, my mother and I wished my step-father dead.  Mum was pissed that it had been his turn to mow the lawns for months and he wouldn’t do it, and she was generally unhappy and wishing him dead, and had come over to my place to get away from it all.  She said, “I wish he’d just bloody well die.”  To which I replied, “hey you never know, maybe he will.”  Then, two days later he did.  He died.

While mowing the lawns.

Seems Death has a biting wit.

Anyway, this nugget of recollection forced it’s way out of the blue and into my conscience today, and I cried because of it.  Guilt and all.  Only what, three and a half years later?  Talk about delayed reaction.  (Talk about ‘issues’…)

I can’t speak for mum, but I never really meant it.  Not literally.

And that, my dears, is that.