NEED SLEEP

Pregnancy: 29-32 Weeks Changes Your Body Will Experience
* Strong and more frequent fetal movements. (sometimes)
* Lower abdominal achiness which is related to the stretching of ligaments. (Ooooouch - think having your pubic mound punched)
* Shortness of breath
* Difficulty sleeping (difficult - read f**king impossible)
* Braxton Hicks contractions
* Colostrum leakage from the breast (change sheets every day)
* Leg cramps
* Backache
* Increase in constipation (as if not going at all could increase)
* Heartburn
* Exhaustion
* Varicose veins and or hemorrhoids
* Mild swelling of ankles and feet
* Occasional headaches, faintness or dizziness
* Increase in clumsiness

Add to this the already embarrassing list of symptoms the ongoing terror of things such as – fear of the pain of labor (get the pun?) – anxiety about baby’s amount of movement – anxiety over genetic deformities – stress from obnoxious relatives telling you what to do – frustration over not being able to do all you used to.

And they wonder why women are putting off their pregnancies until their 30s.

There is very little that is joyous about this condition. There is very little that I can tell you that wouldn’t make you consider instant sterilisation for both the pregnant woman and their partners.

On Saturday Tom and I spent two and a half hours shopping and I was done. Down for the count. Utterly exhausted. So tired that lifting my handbag from the seat of the car proved difficult. I grabbed its handle and managed to drop it not once, not twice, but a grand total of three times before bursting into tears (my handbag is particularly heavy). Tom took the offending luggage and then herded me into the bedroom demanding I get some sleep.

Three hours later I woke and felt no better.

There are six weeks of work left and I really do wonder if I’m going to make it. Of all the physical symptoms and discomforts it is the sheer exhaustion that is driving me under.

I get nine hours of broken sleep – running every 15 minutes to the toilet – and after three hours of sitting at a computer trying to understand what the latest moron is really asking me to explain to them I am done. I can’t focus anymore.

It’s the little details that suffer.

Whoops, forgot a security check before giving out someone’s banking details. I’d laugh if it wasn’t a sacking offence. Luckily I have a stunning boss who understands and I managed a quick, if late, save.

Whoops, gave the wrong balance. Oh well, it’ll come out in the wash. I’m sure they won’t be upset that they’ve lost $10,000 if not literally then figuratively to my exhaustion.

Of all the difficulties of pregnancy it’s the loss of my mental faculties that is proving the most difficult to bear.

I cannot function properly.

When at the registers buying something I’m the idiot who asks for cash out – after the purchase has been completed.

When standing at a table of food I’m the one asking where are the plates, oblivious to the pile in front of me.

When driving I ask Tom to tell me when to turn. He tells me, I turn two streets later.

It’s not good. Not good at all.

I worry about what kind of mother I’ll be if I can’t even remember the basics anymore and it doesn’t help to have everyone telling me it’s only going to get worse.

Soon tOOleS will be nothing more than mindless dribble.

Hell, maybe it already is and I just can’t notice. Tired. Need sleep.

OOH BABY

Why, you ask, haven’t I written more about the pregnancy experience?

Scanning the Internet I’m finding a plethora of blogs about pregnancy. I’ve read and read women’s experience and it’s been helpful and heartening and insightful. Even though I’m now six months pregnant I can’t bring myself to join them.

I potter around with my more mundane thoughts because being pregnant largely defies description or perhaps I just didn’t have the focus necessary to put it into words. More than likely though, it’s because I simply don’t want to share too much of this experience – I’ve wanted to keep it to myself.

Still, it bears mentioning at least for the sake of tOOleS’s continuity.

I could write about the aches and pains (all of which are 100 times more powerful than I thought possible).

In the past six months I spent a total of: 3 months vomiting; 2 months of carpel tunnel syndrome; sore breasts for 2 months; frequent urination for all six months; 1 haemorrhoid; ongoing exhaustion; rapidly failing eyesight (short-sighted since 3 months) and; 2 months serious pubic pain.

I could write about the tears I’ve cried over the small, inconsequential things and things that are not so small and inconsequential.

I cried because; I was scared of labour (at 12 weeks); I don’t look pregnant (ongoing); Tom brought me flowers; Tom cooked me dinner; I couldn’t do the washing up; I couldn’t paint the lounge room in one go; I dropped my handbag; I dropped my keys and; I walked into a wall.

Or, I could go through the long series of medical examinations I’ve had.

I’ve had; blood taken to test my liver function; ultrasound to see if nugget had a genetic disorder; blood tests to see if nugget had a genetic disorder; amniocentesis to see if nugget had a genetic disorder; ultrasound to make sure all of nuggets bits and pieces were there; ultrasound to make sure the placenta was still attached (after the car accident); internal to make sure I wasn’t leaking amniotic fluid (also after car accident); endless urine tests; endless blood pressure tests and; had my abdomen poked to find my fundus (successfully located at week 22 in the right place).

It just doesn’t cut it. Particularly not when you feel that flutter in your abdomen that tells you it’s all real. You are the proud owner of a new life.

I first felt Nugget kick way back when… About week 16-17. Small flutters that were a presence but nothing too significant. They came, but more often they went and remained my little secret.

Week 23 things changed. Nuggets small flutters became rather pronounced bangs. Washes against my abdomen wall that made me feel, quite frankly, a little sea sick.

Now, week 26, the hits and kicks are clearly life. Nugget is no longer a thought and I find myself finally getting into the swing of being pregnant.

I can’t deny Nugget’s existence any more. And the sensation is indescribable. I could grapple with terms – like fish swimming into your sides; like popcorn popping; like rhythmical bubbles of gas; butterflies flapping - but the imagery (all a little disturbing if you ask me) just doesn’t come close to explaining what it feels like.

So I rub my belly with pride, even though I don’t look particularly pregnant and instead look like I’m congratulating myself after a good meal. It’s enough (sometimes) that I know inside is a small child stepping on my bladder. And I complain about the inconvenience of running to the toilet for such false alarms. I complain with a smile on my face that nothing could wipe away.

Because I know something you don’t know. I know Nugget’s real name and I’ve been using it during our private times together.

Nugget is…. Real.

WELFARE

Well, it’s begun. Tom’s kids were on the path to becoming just like their mother – a professional victim and sponge - I just thought we’d have a bit more time to try and intervene.

Three weekends ago, both miss 8 and Mr 13, stole $120 from their grandmother. The money was being held in money tins for them, however they had been told time and time again that it was savings that they could have when they turned 18 to go towards a car or whatever they needed then.

Grandmother had been putting in $5 a week for them and last weekend left them alone to count their money, which they love to do. While she was in another room they pocketed all the notes they could find – including money from their grandmother’s wallet.

The kids have been bragging about all the new things they’ve bought lately too and I can’t help but suspect they’re not even feeling the slightest pangs of guilt.

It’s the culmination of a few months of lies and carry on that Tom has been in denial about. And he’s still in denial. He still thinks it’s “understandable” and “not their fault” and my personal favourite “not as bad as you’re making it out to be”.

I’ve been screamed at by Mr 13; listened to them fight and scream at each other non-stop for hours on end; been blatantly lied to by Miss 8; broke up fist fights and all of this in the past two months. It seems as though it’s never going to stop because no one, other than me, gave a damn about it.

The problem with this latest incident is that their grandmother wants to deal with this herself and as a result we won’t be saying anything about it. Grandmother won’t be either.

“That’s just the way my family works,” Tom sighs. “If she wants to deal with it that means that I can’t say anything or she’ll get upset.”

WTF? Whose children are these? Is no one going to step up to the plate and be a parent? Will no one take responsibility for them and their well-being?

They’re going to end up thieves, liars and dole bludgers all because no one wants to say anything. No one wants to hold them accountable for their own actions. No one wants to teach them that they can’t and won’t always get want they want and that they have to earn their place in this world.

What is with Tom’s cloak and dagger obsessed family – they’re wonderful to your face but tearing you to shreds behind your back or in sneaky hit and run attacks? Who cares if she’ll get upset? Just like everyone in your lineage it’s just something she’ll have to get over.

The big question is, is Tom’s entire bloodline incapable of being honest with themselves and with others?

I’ve gone beyond caring what happens to the kids. No one backs me up and I’m fighting a losing battle because I have no say what-so-ever. What is the point caring when even their own blood relatives are willing to watch the kids’ lives fall into rack and ruin because they don’t want to be seen as the bad guy?

So I’m cutting my losses, at least for now, and focusing on my responsibility to myself, Tom and Nugget.

When they’re in my house I will tolerate them but nothing more. I will lock my valuable away and let Tom deal with them because I simply can’t deal with it anymore.

Every fortnight there’s a lingering presence of the resentment I feel towards Tom, for allowing the obnoxious pair to rack more damage than a whirlwind through our lives and not calling them to account for their behaviour.

My attitude will come and go. My resolve to allow their family to take responsibility for them will waiver – particularly when their behaviour impacts on me directly – and I’ll find myself trying to amend their ways. But for right now I can see no reason why I should care what happens to them anymore.

It’s been made painfully clear that no one wants to see the kids for what they are – obnoxious brats heading for complete destruction. Destruction that could be easily diverted if someone would set some simply boundaries and teach them what’s right and wrong.

Something tells me that Tom’s in for a rough time when the teenage years really hit.

It’ll be a tough thing he’ll have to handle on his own because every time I try to help, it’s made crystal clear the kids are not my concern.

And I won’t be concerning myself with their welfare any longer.