Buckets, spades and false eyelashes

Hi Milla.

It's Mom.

We took you to the Sedgefield lagoon yesterday, to play in the rock pools.

You looked so cute in your little sunhat and swimsuit-thingy, sitting in the water and eating the spade. You did one of your face-dives at one point and ended up covered in sand. Which you didn't like. And I, uncharacteristically, sat beside you (in my 50s-style Granny cossie, hat and fab sunnies) - caring not a jot that I'm pale, freckly and not in beach-ready shape.

It was then that I realised how much this holiday differs from holidays past.

As far as aesthetics are concerned, that is.

1. No eyelash extensions
2. No fake tan
3. No freshly applied hair colour
4. No perfect mani and pedi
5. No heels. None.
6. No teeny bikini
7. No suntan oil
8. No glittery moisturiser
9. No makeup. None.

I have also swum in the lagoon, which I never do. Worn my nightie til noon. Worn SPF 50. Kept my hat on. Shmeared you with sun stuff. Often. Eaten multiple choccie soft serves.

It's been heavenly.

I like holidays with you much better than all those past. (Except possibly the Asian ones :)

May you love your holidays, you little sand crab.

Love you.

Mom x

She taught me bravery.

Hi Milla.

It's Mom.

And again, a blog post that's not about you. Well, not really.

I had a cousin. A beautiful, bold, big-mouthed, brilliant cousin. Her name was Nicci. She was everything that, in my early, mid and late teens, I badly wanted to be.

She took no bullshit. Spoke her mind. Was completely unapologetic about not liking certain people. Was generous and kind-hearted towards people she didn't know, and divine to people she liked.

She had style. Had confidence. Had loyal followers, friends and even foes. She carried her own herbal teabags, in case the restaurant in question didn't have what she wanted. Had a little metal box with her sweetener in it. (And we were students, fergodsakes. Who thinks about tea and sweetener?) Was an absolute man-magnet. Loved smoking. And parties.

Here are some other things I really loved about Nicci:

• The dimple that was high up in her cheek (I have one too).
• Her thumbs (weird, exactly like my father's and her mother's).
• The way she walked. Okay, strode.
• Her watches. They were glorious.
• Her laugh: a loud, naughty cackle.
• The fact that she always, always smelled like Mugler's 'Angel'.
• How unashamedly smart she was.

What I want you to know is that I was going to name you Cole. After her (Nicole) and my late Dad (Colin). I didn't, but that doesn't minimise the effect she had on my adult life.

I think about her every day. (Which is strange, if we're being completely honest here, because I was nowehere near as close to her as some people were - and as I am to my very closest friends... But I would have loved to be.) She altered my personality.

After we lost her in 2001, just before her 21st, I began to notice my dimple. I started to laugh more. And I developed the sort of confidence that colleagues remark on. I'm proud to be bold and big-mouthed. I take little bullshit. I speak my friggin' mind. A lot. Loudly.

I didn't do any of this on purpose. It just happened. Somewhere between 2002 and 2005, I transformed from a bit of a wallflower, with a healthy dose of insecurity and public shyness, into an extrovert who likes chatting to strangers, says irreverent things, dives in.

I am brave. Nicci taught me bravery. May you be brave.

I love you.

Mom x

Something to be grateful for

Hi Milla.

It's Mom.

Believe it or not, this little blog post isn't actually about you.

Although - at 8.5 months - you're so cute it's obscene. You have a tooth, and several adorable habits (like smacking your lips between bites, eating lemon wedges, giving five, saying 'Mamamamamama' on repeat, and wrinkling your nose when you smile), and you're crawling up a storm, standing brilliantly and starting to toddle if your hand is held. You also occasionally lift your knees up off the floor when crawling. And you yawn, eat and look a lot like a little tortoise.

But, moving on. This post is about gratitude. And your Dad.

A week or two ago, I leaped aboard the #thingsIamgratefulfor meme on Twitter, and started posting daily tweets about things I felt grateful for. I got to number 6. And stopped. Not because I ran out of things to thank the universe for, but because I got bored with the meme.

This morning, tho', while lying awake in the scary hours (because I'd dreamed someone had stolen you and couldn't get back to sleep once I checked that you were a) still there and b) still breathing), I started thinking about numbers. And this made me absurdly grateful.

Here they are:

• 5    The number of dates Dad and I had before he asked for an exclusive :)
• 3    The number of months it took me and Dad to realise we loved each other
• 8    The number of months til Dad asked me to marry him
• 3    The number of seconds it took me to say Yes
• 20  The number of months we were together, in total, before we were married
• 3.5 The number of years we were together before we had you
• 6    The number of weeks it took for us to get pregnant with you
• (60  The number of years I hope your Dad and I will still have together)

And all of these numbers make me feel absurdly grateful.

As do you. Because you're deliciousness personified.

May you feel grateful for so many wonderful things in your life.

I love you.

Mom x

8 months old...

...and crawling!

Also standing, clapping, waving, flapping and featuring the start of one tiny tooth. What a clever pumpernickel.

Hi Milla.

It's Mom.

Every day you're turning into a more delicious (and slightly weird) human being. You've started developing a real little personality, a strong will and a passion for some odd things. Like:

1. Watching sport on TV. Neither Dad nor I like sport. Playing it, watching it, talking about it. And yet, if there's rugby, soccer, or anything else with a ball and players running on green surfaces, you're glued.

2. Afrikaans pop. Now don't tell anyone, Milla-Pops, but I like Kurt Darren. Dad is deeply embarrassed about this. But you seem to like him in general. And Afrikaans gospel groups in particular.

3. Ads for mediocre double-cabs. Every time the Plutus (whatever the hell that is) is advertised on TV, you stop what you're doing and pay attention. Like I said, weird. Dad is profoundly unimpressed.

4. Trying to eat weird things. The wall, the table, my shoulder, your father. The cats.

5. Creedence Clearwater Revival. Yes, really. I realise that they are responsible for 'Have you ever seen the rain', but seriously, kid. Next it's gonna be Smokie.

I'm also going to seize this rare blogging opportunity to place on record a couple of Milla-stones. So, for the two or three people who regularly read this blog (Hi Mom. Hi Hil. Hi Dan.), here's a short list of things you've started doing since I blogged last:

1. Crawling. Fast.

2. Rolling. Off your changing station.

3. Pulling yourself up on things.

4. Unpacking my wine racks.

5. Trying to climb down the stairs.

6. Sticking your tongue out the side of your mouth.

7. Saying 'Tata' and waving bye-bye.

8. Pointing with one finger.

9. Dancing. Kind of.

10. Sleeping on your tummy.

I love you,

Mom x

7 months old...

...and delicious.

Hi Milla.

It's Mom.

Although a fair bit of time has passed since last I mommy-blogged, it's been divine time.

You're getting cuter, smilier and more engaging every day.

You're crawling, which is adorable and scary and exciting at the same time.

You love people, which is weird, cos I only half do and Dad really doesn't.

And you're now widely known not as 'Mimi', but as 'Miellie-Pap'. Oy.

Kid, we completely and totally love you.

And, to prove it, here are some of your deliciousnessess:

1. You look so sweet when you cry (which you do very seldom and only when you bump your head, someone sneezes or you're feeling fragile).
2. Despite the all-knowing, all-predicting pseudo-wisdom of every old bobba who's clapped eyes on you since your birth, your eyes are still blue. Blue-blue, not baby blue or any of that shit. BLUE.
3. You're a genuine social butterfly. Who'da thunk? You'll happily go to car guards, waiters, strangers.
4. You really don't like being held by smokers. And I like that about you.
5. You look a bit like me when you smile and a lot like your Dad when you frown. The rest of the time we have no bloody idea where you came from or who you look like. But hell's bells do we love you.
6. You're [still making up for my nightmare birth experience, breast-feeding battle and 10 weeks of severe and crippling PND by being] the world's best baby. You sleep through (and have for five months), you travel like a champ, you like airplanes, you eat everything (and I do mean, everything), you're kind to the cats and you're a star in restaurants, supermarkets, the car (mostly) and when Mom's working, tweeting, CSI-ing, or making one of her prized cups of strong coffee...

I love you.

Love Mom x

You're talking.

Hi Milla.

It's Mom.

So, you're talking. Okay, not real words. But long sentences that sound a lot like 'ar-ar-ar', punctuated by consonant sounds and your usual 'agoo'. Very, very, very cute.

Your dad says, based on a book he read recently, that babies are a lot like boiled owls. So true. Your 'ar-ar-ar' sounds like hooting, and when you're in the midst of one of your (rare) feed-me tantrums, you look exactly like a boiled owl.

But, back to the story...

You seem to like talking to yourself, or to your play gym hangy-things, as much as you like talking to us (which may not bode well for your future capacity to socialise), but is helluva fun to watch and listen to.

And I'm amazed at how quickly you progressed from grunting to gurgling to 'speaking'. Babies are amazing.

We're loving watching you grow (at 3.5 months old you're the size and weight of a 4-5 month old; that's my girl!), and learn, and develop. And your laughter is heavenly.

You've also started grabbing and holding on, which is a milestone, and very cool. All in all, you're a dream baby. Adorable, happy, fat, friendly, and able to sleep for 10 hours at night.

So I just wanted to take some time out of a week that has, due to PND, been largely hideous, scary and dark, and say, thank you for adding the little bits of light.

I love you.

Mom x

I am blessed.

Hi Milla.

It's Mom.

As I type this you're lying on your play gym - blending in with the garish colours, because of the brightly coloured babygro (Carter's - courtesy of Gogo Hil) that I love so much I put you in it whenever it's freshly laundered - and having an absolute whale of a time playing by yourself.

As I type this, I'm looking back on today: my nicest day in three weeks. Three dark, twisty weeks.

As I type this, I'm feeling blessed. And what better reason is there to grab my laptop and have you bomble about - in your new language and with your newly discovered digits - in the background, than that?

Now, the blessings:

1. I am blessed because you sleep. 

Like your Dad, you're a night sleeper. (Okay, he's a day sleeper too, but so what?) You sleep, like a dream, from 7pm or 8pm when we put you down (and sometimes even when you put yourself to sleep; see previous post) to 5am or 6am, when I hear you chattering, sneezing or squeaking over the monitor.

That's 10 (ten) hours. That's a lot of sleep. And that means that Mom and Dad get their fair share of sleep too. You're a blessing. You truly are. Now all I need to do is get to bed around 8.30pm - ha ha.

2. I am blessed because you very seldom, if ever, wake up screaming. 

Chattering, squeaking, sometimes gentle squawking. These are your cues to be collected, greeted enthusiastically and fed. And you sometimes even eat and go back to sleep for a bit. Lucky mommy.

3. I am blessed to live in South Africa.

A country that mostly scares me, often frustrates me and seldom comforts me - but makes it possible for me to have the domestic help I need to a) get well, b) go back to work (supposedly tomorrow, but let's not talk about that, shall we?), and c) grab the small gaps in the week that enable me to be well-groomed and (potentially, but not yet) averagely fit and moderately toned. Not to mention d) have a clean house.

Today, Thursday, 'Granny Nanny' (Gogo and John's helper) spent the day here with me. Largely, to babysit me. But also, to babysit you. So I could do a bit o' work, do a bit o' PND healing and let go just a little.

What a treat. In addition to being a wise woman, she's a wonderful woman. I loved every minute of our intermittent chats and I adored the whole hour we spent in deep conversation, while you slept - and very cutely snored.

And, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, we have Laurancia. Our own lovely, lovely helper. Who, with me, is learning about early childcare, and finding her feet in looking after little you so I can work.

May you grow up to recognise your blessings easily, and often.

I love you.

Mom x

Milestones...

Hi Milla.

It's Mom.

You know, it seems you're milestoning every single day, angel. And every day I feel compelled to record, for the one and a half people who are reading this, what you're up to. I also don't want to forget. (And, considering that I am a basket case - but not for long, promise - remembering is important.)

So, the milestone/s.

Well, last week we spent two nights having sleepovers at Yiayia's house, cos Dad was working nights. That's a milestone for me - the taking-you-out-for-a-sleepover part. But there's more... You discovered a few things and I discovered a few things. Here, for the record, is a shortlist of both:

You discovered:

• That if you lie on Yiayia's black carpet and look at the coffee table, there's a baby looking back at you. Yes, you discovered mirrors! Cutest.
• That there's a special white frilly bassinet at Yiayia's house, just for you, and that you like to lie in it and bat the blue mobile Vera bought you.
• That there's such a creature as Gucci ('Mommy'th Boy'), and that he likes to stare at you, lick you, leap up towards you (but not on you, cos he's closely monitored), and sometimes bark at you.
• That you could put yourself to sleep.

I discovered:

• That I could physically bring myself to take you out of the house for a whole, whole night.
• That there's something deeply comforting about Yiayia's house, where I once lived. And worked.
• That two glasses of wine and a silly movie (Mr & Mrs Smith) make for a very happy space.
• That you can put yourself to sleep.

This last one is a biggie. I don't know what possessed me to try it but, after your 7pm feed, I took you to Yiayia's room, dimmed the chandelier (yes, really), swaddled you, gave you a kiss and simply plonked you into the white frilly bassinet. Then, I left the room. I wasn't holding out much hope that this would yield sleep on your part, but I did it anyway. And, each time Yiayia and I ventured towards the doorway to check on you (which we did about 300 times over the next half hour), you were playing with your hands, sucking your thumb or gurgling very quietly to yourself, and you were very happy. Shortly, you were asleep - and you slept til 6am! You can't imagine the extent of my pride and delight. I love you.

And just because I can, let me say this again: You're the greatest baby in the world. I love you.

Mom x

So clever!

Hi Milla.

It's Mom.

There have been so many times over the last few days or so that I've ITCHED to blog to you. Because you've done so many things over the last few days or so that are noteworthy, and I have this unbelievable need to record them somehow... Here are a few:

1. Real, proper, determined thumb-sucking. So much so that when I went into your room yesterday morning, at the very civilised hour of 6.45am, to get you, you more or less ignored me and carried on with your thumb. Ca-yoot!

2. Real, proper reaching for things. Tonight, when I changed your nappy, you grabbed the cool recycled bells-and-little-funny-toys-thingy we got from our baby massage classes and really held onto it, making it ring all by yourself.

3. Real, proper conversations. The other day, in the car, we had our very first ever gurgle-and-respond, mom-and-baba, back-and-forth conversation. It was amazing. So purposeful, and so cool. Dad was so busy watching us in the rearview baby mirror he could barely drive the car. But that's a bad joke, cos he recently couldn't drive the car, as it happens, and had a close encounter with a large wooden stake...

4. Real, proper laughing. This is the cutest thing I've ever seen and heard. You are exceptional. And I love you, my beautiful, clever, genius, smiley, gurgly, pretty girl. You are my joy.

Mom x

Hello again.

Hi Milla.

This is Mom.

It's been a while. To be honest, Mom has been in a bit of a hole for the last few weeks. I'm coming out of it now, thanks to you, your spectacular father and some very good medication/medical intervention, but I feel that you deserve a short update on some of the things you've recently started doing that I love more than words can say.

Milestone-wise, you're doing so brilliantly. Smiling, laughing, reaching for things. Every day brings some new discovery of what your hands, feet, face or fingers can achieve and Dad and I love watching it become regular. Like, yesterday was the day you learned to get your hands to your mouth and suck on your fingers.

On purpose. Not just by accident.

And sometimes you even got your thumb in. Now, I planned to be one of those moms who disallowed thumb-sucking (probably because your Dad sucked his til he was about 14 and your Yiayia still occasionally 'thucks' hers at 61), but it's so damn cute that I can't possibly stop you. And, I can't possibly stop you. You're too determined.

I love you, my baby girl. Madly.

May you continue to learn things in your own time and on your own schedule - but still be a complete, utter, unbelievable genius :) Thanks.

Love Mom x

10 things

Dear Milla,

Hi. This is Mom.

So, I haven't blogged much. Okay, at all.

You're keeping me pretty busy in person, and unlike when you were livin' in my belly, I talk to you a lot now. In real life.

So I don't feel like I have to type to correspond with you. But I did want to put down, in writing, 10 things I love about you, having known you now for 23 days.

In random order:

1. Your exquisite blue eyes
2. Your grunty language
3. The way you yawn with your whole, entire face (and neck and shoulders)
4. Your funny little feet that look exactly like your father's
5. Your funny-shaped pointy head that looks just like mine
6. The way you behave like a star whenever people are here
7. The way you behave like a terrorist sometimes when no-one is here
8. Your growing smile
9. Your snuffly 'hungry' face
10. Your little burps, farts, and other strange stuff that's cute cos it's yours

I love you. MADLY.

Mom x

You're here!

Dear Thumper,

Hi. This is Mom.

And I guess it’s time to call you by your real name. Which, after much ado (and I do mean A-DO) is Milla Emme Janks. I’m going to call you Mimi, I think.

[Ed – In practice, this hasn’t happened. I call you Miellie. Not as elegant, but whatever.)

Welcome, poppet.

You’re here!

And you’re so beautiful. Dad and I are loving getting to know you and working out how to make you happy, full and satisfied.

More on that later.

First: your birth story.

I was in the bath around 7pm or so, and got a message from Auntie Claudia to say that her baby had arrived. By then you were 40 weeks and 5 days cooked, I was getting a bit desperate and there was a Monday morning induction looming on 4 April. Also, Clau had been due two weeks after me, so I was a bit sad that you’d still not come…

Dad and I ate toasted sarmies for dinner and settled on the couch to watch The Wire (incidentally, the second best TV show of all time). On top of the usual radical BHCs, with accompanying pain and timing, I kept feeling funny ‘leaking’ sensations, but as this is a fairly regular feature of pregnancy – if you’ll excuse the TMI – I wasn’t too fazed.

And it was minor. More like dribbling, in fact, if we’re being completely honest.

After a very short time, however, I got uncomfortable and missioned up the stairs to check it all out (and to make wee #276 of the day) and guess what? Pink fluid! Amniotic fluid! Yay! I shrieked down the stairs to Dad, all pleased with myself, and we were in business.

The labour business.

Within minutes, the dribbling was running, the fluid was blood, I was a bit concerned and Marilyn was texted for advice (the first of many such text messages over the course of the next few hours). We were told to hang tight (‘try to get some rest’ – yes, that’s likely), time the contractions and get back to her in a couple of hours with more info. So, we did.

The contractions came on quite quickly and shocked me because they were nothing like the BHCs I’d had for the previous three or four weeks. Nothing. A totally different story.

Different area. Differing type of pain. Different duration, accumulation and sensation. They’re right, you know: when you’re in real labour, you just know. But anyway…

Dad and I were doing a pretty good job of pain management, I thought. Lots of swaying, and walking around, and bending over the bed (best position ever), and trying the ball and abandoning the ball, and gasping, and being smartly told not to hold my breath.

But, considering how painful it all was, I really think we were handling well. We got packed up and sorted, I had a shower and washed my hair (though I only shampooed once), and we planned to meet Marilyn at the Parklane at 1.45am. I felt sorry for her because she’d only just finished with Claudia’s delivery around 5pm – but what can you do?

The ride to the clinic (at 2am, a ghost town) wasn’t too bad – tho it did feel endless – and by the time we got there the contractions were pretty close together; three minutes or so.

We headed for the active birthing unit, which is a red-white-and-hospital-patterned monstrosity only slightly less awful than a normal birthing room. It has a huge king-size bed instead of a hospital cot, and a birthing pool, but the bathroom lights didn’t work and neither did the lamps, and I wasn’t very impressed in general. Hid it well, though.

Marilyn did an internal. Yowza. It was excruciating. Especially when I realised that, at only 2cm dilated, I’d have approximately eight more internals over the coming hours…

Within an hour or two I’d dilated only 3cm in total and was in agony. Apparently I was having a ‘back labour’ – when the baby is in a posterior position with the back of its head pressing against the mother’s sacrum – and these are much more painful than usual.

Typical :) You beauty.

Anyway, end result – I asked for an epidural. I felt a bit wimpy about it. Okay, a lot wimpy. But I couldn’t see how I’d have enough energy after 10 hours of that pain to push you out, even with your small head, and I figured I could blame the wimpishness on the back labour.

Problem #1? You can’t have an epidural in the active birthing unit. You need a proper hospital delivery room, complete with drip, catheter, medical equipment and all that jazz. No water, no squatting, no standing, no walking. It’s lying down all the way. Yuk.

But I decided to do it anyway. Goodbye, water. Goodbye, dolphin baby. Hello, blue gown.

Rudolph, the anaethetist, arrived, and he and Marilyn got me hooked up and sorted out. He explained the risks, which I largely laughed off, including the all-important fact that 90% of people respond brilliantly to epidurals and 10% don’t. This gets important later…

Then I got a needle in my spine and waited for the blissful numbness to descend.

Nothing.

The right went numb. The left felt the same. The contractions were really sore on the left still, tho I felt nothing on the right and worse, I had to use a bedpan – because we needed both sides to be numb before we could insert the catheter… Skaam, skaam, skaam.

(Btw, if I thought that was skaam, I had no idea what was coming. Dignity at the door.)

About an hour later Rudolph decided to do another epidural, as the first wasn’t working and wasn’t going to work – again, he explained the risks, which grow with every attempt. But guess what, baby girl? No luck. Numb on the right. Nothing on the left. Except pain.

Enter pethidine. Such a disgusting substance, that effed me up so badly, that I won’t deign to give it coverage beyond the fact that I hated it, and it hated me, and I regret taking it.

Marilyn did a second internal and broke the bad news. I was still only 3cm dilated, after 10 hours of labour, two failed epidurals and a cloud of bloody evil pethidine. What’s worse, you’d turned and were face-up and after all our efforts, your head was starting to swell. (This, despite your being in the most texbookly perfect position for most of 41 weeks…)

We had to get you out. I had to have a Caesar. Birth plan demolished. New plan in play.

Oh, and before I forget, Jivvy the Genius was away. For the weekend. There was a locum.

By this time Veronica was with us. And I was just shy of hysterical with disappointment, fear and no small measure of guilt. Was it the epidurals (the wimpishness) that had halted labour, made you turn or made your head swell? Or did that happen all by itself?

[Ed: Holy crap. The last time I looked at this page was a week ago. Jesus. They weren’t kidding about not having time to get shit done… I manage to bath daily, wee when needed and occasionally put some lip stuff on, but that’s it, china. Anyways, onwards…]

I was shaved, suited and schlepped into theatre where I encountered a very crosspatch face among several others: Dr Bothner’s. Jivvy’s OB locum, Bothner had apparently been called in last-minute and she was NOT best pleased. She had a bat mitzvah to get to (and treated it with all of the urgency of a gentile who doesn’t really understand a) reform bat mitzvahs or b) Jewish time) and was noticeably pissed off at having been called in ‘late’.

She crapped all over poor Veronica, avoided making eye contact with me and without so much as a ‘Hello, I’m Dr Bothner. Let’s get started.’, told the theatre staff they had 15 minutes to ‘get this done’. I was blubbing my eyes out, as a result of being very, very stoned and sad about the Caesar, Dan was out of the room temporarily and the lovely Rudolph was holding my hand. Soon Dad came back in and the Caesar began.

Thanks to the spinal block – which, thank Gd, worked – I felt little except some pulling, pushing and shoving. And within minutes, there you were, on my chest for some skin-on-skin, covered in vernix and so pink and perfect. I cried. Dad howled. It was very sweet.

I must have ‘sobered up’ for that brief moment, because I remember that bit clearly, but the before and most of the after are a large blur. One thing I do recall is saying ‘Shir Ha Ma’alot’ in my head – weirdness deluxe - and thinking about Granny Fraida almost constantly from when you came out to when they took you away for weighing, etc.

Bothner finished up, sewed me up and effed off. No goodbye, no good luck. And I turned to Veronica and loudly pointed out that the doc had the bedside manner of Hitler. I am quoting here. No flies on me. Pity she’s German, tho, as that’s quite a bad joke…

But, moving on…

As I’ve said, much of what followed was drug-induced haze, but you did latch nicely (at first) in the recovery room and I couldn’t feel a thing, including my legs and feet… We were moved to our (thank Gd) private room in Ward 1, and then our life together really began…

Mom, Hil and John came in at some point – no-one cried, which disappointed me a bit – and I have absolutely no idea what happened next. In fact, much of what followed was a mix of hospital indignity (tho the Parklane maternity staff are divine, divine, divine), blood, gore, and lots and lots of medical professionals popping in to poke and prod us…

Caesars are damn sore and I did, at some stage, promise Dad that I’d never, ever have more children. But two weeks down the line, and almost altogether recovered (amazing, that), I’m over it and I’d certainly do it again. At 38 weeks. Civilised, like. With nice hair, nice nails, a wax, and a pre-determined date that suits everyone – including Jivkov.

There’s so much more I want to tell you. About your first few days and weeks. And what we’re learning about you and how super-cool you are. But I’ll get to it. Eventually.

Let me just say that while all the planning got cocked up completely, you were more than worth it. And meeting you was amazing, and getting to know you is beautiful, and I cannot get over how exquisite you are, that Dad and I made you and that you came out of me.

You’re here. We love you. Thank you for being pink, perfect and so, so, so pretty!

Love Mom x

Control freak

No reason. I just like it.

Dear Thumper,

Hi. This is Mom.

So, I'm a control freak. An A-type personality. An Alpha female.

Whatever you call it, I'm that person who likes schedules, works to deadline and designs contingency plans for the contingency plans. You can probably understand, therefore, how hard it is for me to be chipper in the face of your non-arrival.

I'm 40 weeks pregnant today. That's 10 months, not nine. That's two months shy of a year of pregnancy. So today - as everyone I know is constantly reminding me via BBM, Whatsapp, SMS, email and phone -  is the due date. D-day. Today's Sunday 27 March 2011. Your day. Where are you, Thumps?

It's entirely possible that, since I am a model pregnant woman (previous smug posts have covered this sufficiently, so I won't dwell on it again here), you're so comfy and happy in there that you don't want to come out. And why would you? Tsunamis, power shortages, Libya - the world's a fairly awful place.

But what worries me is not so much that you're snug and cosy and quite content to stay in there til 'they' come get you, but that p'raps someone somewhere along the way got the effing dates wrong...

Another 10 days? The idea makes me want to cry. Loudly.

Not because being pregnant is so bad, because it isn't. And I'm nowhere near as uncomfortable as I was a few weeks ago (aside from the inability to walk properly and the shitty sleep). But because I'm ready to get started. Or, I was three weeks ago. And the readiness slips away with each week you don't come.

I also feel, control freak that I am, like an abject failure.

Everyone else produces a baby at 37 or 38 or 39 weeks, even naturally. [For what it's worth, I no longer buy into the whole 'most first-time moms deliver late' bullshit, as everyone I know from Preggi Bellies, antenatal class and everywhere else, including my school and varsity friends, has had their baby already, and is busy bonding over weigh-ins and such.] I'm a deadline person. And the deadline is today. Yikes.

I am used to producing the expected masterpiece on time.

Or before. I'm pathologically, reliably early. For everything.

I've been told that you're trying to teach me patience, and the critical parenting lesson that is: I can no longer control anything, and must fit into your schedule, whatever that may be. Fine. Well. Good. But can we get started? Because I'm fast losing my nerve. And I need my nerves. Or, so 'they' say.

The constant check-ups from loved ones and mates don't help. People mean well, but I feel worse with every call. No, I don't know where the baby is. (Well, I do, but...) No, we didn't forget to phone you. Yes, she's late. Yes, I have heard of the sex/curry/pineapple/reflexology/hot bath/long walk remedy...

Argh.

So, for me, for today, the critical parenting lesson is this:

You may be my daughter, but you're not necessarily like me. Or like Dad. I've gotta suck it up. You may be late for everything, forever. And that's going to have to be okay with me. 

May you be you. That's enough for me. Looking forward...

Love you.

Mom x

3 days to go

How pretty is your dandelion wall?

Dear Thumper,

Hi. This is Mom.

How're you doing in there, angel? To be honest, I thought (we all thought) you'd be here by now. 3 days to go til due date, and no sign of you. You must be enjoying yourself... So that's something...

Dad and I are feeling flat. About three weeks ago we were raring for the big moment: prepared, in tune, on the go. I felt fit and well-informed and on top of things. The bags were packed and in the car.

Now I'm bigger than ever, too weary to exercise, too achy to sleep, too far removed from antenatal classes to remember anything and both bags are in the bedroom and having things removed from them daily.

We're also falling victim to denial-mixed-with-conviction syndrome. In short, we're either convinced you're en route every single night, or talking ourselves out of the Braxton-Hicks actually being 'real'.

To be fair, the conviction part is more me than Dad.

So, we've decided to try to pretend to be on holiday.

The theory is: lunches out, movies, naps on the couch. You know, all Dad's favourite things. We're hoping to start this afternoon. Or tomorrow.

I'm still working half day ish, here and there. Which keeps me sane and makes me feel productive. I've also made some nice new friends - finally! Which I'm loving. But on the whole we're so excited to meet you, that we can't seem to focus much on anything else.

We do love your room, though. It's utterly divine.

Have a look...

Your cot

Our chair

Your desk-compactum

Your birdies

Your clock (okay, my clock)

Dad's systems (bath & bum)

Pretty Thailand lights

Yaya's lali (radio), Romy's lamp, our weird monkey

We love being in your room. It's such a peaceful, restful, calming place. Hope you agree. And even though it seems like being pregnant is a large practical joke and you're never, ever coming - much less on the verge of populating oh-so-your pretty room - we're going to hang there til it's time.

May you be a person who's always on time. Or slightly early. [She types, fingers crossed.]

Love you.

Mom x

Half day.

This is Rihanna. LOVE this pic.

Dear Thumper,

Hi. This is Mom.

You know, maternity leave - the bit before the baby comes - is a bit weird. I've worked at full tilt, 9 or 10 hours a day, for the last 9 or 10 years and I'm afraid I simply don't know how to switch off. At least, not while I'm at home.

My new routine? Wake up at 7. Eat. In bed, next to sleeping Dad. Get up around 8am or so to shower, change, feed cats, etc. Start work around 8.30am, and admit Roxana around 9am. Work in the office til 1pm or 1.30pm.

And then, veg.

TV (crappy TV), snacks (unhealthy kak), cats, or errands (expensive grooming or Thumper things)...

Til around 3pm when, typically, I look around in complete bamboozlement at how people fill days when there's no work to do - or, no work they feel like doing. And I find myself heading into the office to fetch my laptop, on which I then tinkle and twinkle for a couple of hours. Admin, marketing, general fiddling about, tweeting - you know, the stuff people who have salaries do to break the tedium...

And the guilt! G-d, it's hideous. I feel like the entire universe is scowling down at me for being such a lazy-ass during a perfectly good work day.

So, Thumps - my conclusion? I'm ready for you. For a new 24-hour-a-day occupation. For something other than work, study, success and self-promotion to occupy my mind and my time... For my business to evolve slightly and my mind to follow a whole new path for a while. And if that means a slight drop in earnings later on (I'll accept a 50% knock, I reckon, but no more), so be it. You're worth it.

I don't know much (yet), but I do know that.

May you have my work ethic. (No offence to Dad. But I am a superlative workaholic, me.)

Love you.

Mom x

Slacker Mom

Dear Thumper,

Hi. This is Mom.

The slacker who hasn't written to you in a while. Sorry.

To be honest, I'm starting to feel that last-two-weeks fatigue: you know, when there are no more milestones left; and we've celebrated your eyelashes and your elbows and kicks and hiccups and BHCs and 4D scan; and the room's done and bags packed; and you could arrive any minute, but you don't; and there are silly things to do that I don't feel like doing; and the waiting's getting boring... You know...

So, we're there. All that's left is you. We can't wait.

Seriously.

One of the things I've found strange about being pregnant is that everyone else seems so very excited about the baby's arrival, along the lines of, 'Yes, labour will suck but at the end of it, I get to be a mom.'

Hmmm, me not so much. Don't get me wrong: I'm super-excited to meet you and can't wait to have you in our life, and I'm sure I'll be fairly good at the mothering thing (eventually), but I'm not frothing at the gills to be that being they call 'a mom'. I'm just eager to meet you. To have you. To learn to love you.

And for that part, I can't wait. So, where are you? :)

The body's clever. By the end of nine months and two weeks and a bit, everything is so uncomfortable and I'm so large and ungainly (even the-usually-very-complimentary Dad has recently used the beached whale / harpoon / Greenpeace analogy) that - despite my wide array of anxieties, fears and worries - I'm thinking you'll be better out than in. I'm looking forward to being un-pregnant, and to being me again.

Except, this time, I'll be me plus you. A whole different me. Forever changed. And, hopefully, better.

Und now, ve vait.

May you inherit my chronic un-slackerishness and Dad's chronic chilledness, in equal parts.

Love you.

Mom x

Our bump shoot

When two people really love each other...

Dear Thumper,

Hi. It's Mom.

Dad and I had some pro bump photos taken recently, by the brilliant Patrick Furter, who did our wedding. We love Patrick - and he loves us - so the pics always turn out beautifully... And the shoot is always fun. And this time was no exception. Even Reacher got in on the action. Poser...

Here are some highlights, Thumps...

Love you.

Mom x

P.S May you always be 100% crystal clear on how completely, totally beautiful you are.

Mom's favourite place - the big bookshelf.

Mom and Dad, dreaming of you.

And now, for a word from our sponsors...

Reach gets in on the action.

Aren't you beautiful, Fump?

Bump to bump. Love it!

Guess who's in there...?

You didn't come.

Dear Thumper,

Hi. This is Mom.

So - you didn't come. But that's okay. We can wait.

And it was all a fairly good trial run for the real thing. Think Dad and I did well: no panicking, lots of calm organisation. Hopefully it goes the same way when it's really happening.

However, the last few nights have been unbelievably uncomfortable. It's hard to breathe, hard to find a comfy way to sleep and everything aches. There are also loads of pretty painful BHCs and many, many, many wees.

Last night I dreamed that your name was the M-name. You know, the favourite. And - unfortunately - the one that's very, very similar to what Greg & Soni have named Sadie's new baby sister, Mika. But in my dream you were already here and you loved your name. So maybe that's the second of two signs...

I am shortly having a delicious preggie massage and then taking it easy. There's work to be done, but I can't be bothered. Have already drawn up Dad's sms contact list for the hospital and typed up our birth plan. So that's enough for now. Coffee!

Have a beautiful day in there, Thumps.

May you like your name - whatever it is.

Love you.

Mom x

Are you coming?

Dear Thumper,

Hi. It's Mom.

So, are you coming?

I know I'm only 36.5 weeks along, with 24 days to go, according to Dad, but you're making all sorts of stuff happen in there.

• Last night I was bizarrely and uncharacteristically weepy. Not like me. And counter to my whole pregnancy to date. Dad took hours to calm me down and I woke up all puffy and miff.
• This morning, early, I had lower back pain. Like period pain. Again, unlike me and unlike things so far. But it went away.
• Lunchtime, or just after. Dad and James came home from lunch and I had a funny feeling. I'm a bit skaam to describe it here - which is silly, cos you're my kid-to-be and I'm about to spend several years wiping your little bum, but this is the Interwebs after all... So I'll just say, there was some strange leakage. But it went away.
• Tonight, standing in the kitchen, I asked Dad to take a photo of me in Auntie Tanya's lovely preggie pants and the red top Yaya bought for me in Woolly Moolly. And just as he was about to take it, I had a weird pain right across my bump. Never had one like that before. I got a fright. Pulled my 'ouch' face; the one Dad thinks is funny. Closest thing to a contraction I could think of.

And so we got busy with the iPhone contraction timer. Baby's Coming, it's called. And it's great. Problem is, I then had four contractions, 20 minutes apart, of about 90 seconds each, for over an hour. And now we don't know if you're en route or not.

Things got a bit irregular after that. We phoned Midwife Marilyn - who suggested two Panados and a hot bath, surprisingly :) - and said it might be early labour. So now we're in bed and we're to call her when 'things' are five minutes apart.

You can imagine what happened after that. I had to wash my hair and shave my legs, just in case. Dad got busy packing the gear bag: Kindle, camera, phones, iPods, etc. Dad made your bed. Dad checked the bags - both of them; yours and ours.

And I made a list of all the clients I'm going to have to ass-lick if indeed there's no more work for me:

• Tomorrow's training client.
• Friday's - fok.
• Safrea - and the 30 people coming to a) hear me speak and b) enjoy the evening I need to host.
• Monday's training client.
• The two clients who still want changes.
• The few students with marking due.
• The two clients that I owe small work.
• And the few who're waiting on prep.

YIKES. Oh well. I'll have to apologise profusely and get over it. Fast. You're more important. Promise.

I'm still fairly sure it's a false alarm. But denial is apparently a strong labour sign...

We're now 15 mins, 14 mins, 11 mins apart - no pain, no real discomfort, just funny twinges that start in the bladder almost, stretch across the whole belly, and then end with a final twinge in the bladder. Useful when trying to gauge duration, but not sore or even unpleasant... Which is weird. You also tend to kick in between, which is interesting :)

I'm gonna sign off now. Better get some rest in. We might be seeing you soon. Sooner than we thought.

May you only ever do things in your own sweet time.

Love you.

Mom x

Your Dad

Dear Thumper,

Hi. This is Mom.

I'm multi-tasking. Mona Lisa Smile, a fairly silly Julia Roberts movie, is playing noisily just above the edge of my laptop. But it's ideal Saturday afternoon TV-watching-while-typing stuff. Ingwe is here, crying when I sneeze, but otherwise keeping me company beautifully from the corner.

Dally and Reachy are nowhere to be seen. Probably jointly destroying the exquisite new wingbacks.

And Dad's away. Obviously, since I'm watching a chick flick and playing on my Mac at the same time.

Just wanted to tell you a quick story, about a guy we'll call, um, Nathaniel. For the sake of my memory.

[Ed: Sorry, Thumps. Dad came home early. Yay! So I didn't get to finish your post. I'm now watching American Idol - and blubbing like a child - and live tweeting and eating mini Peppermint Crisps and bonding with Reachy-Pops the Zoolander and contemplating your story. So, here we go again...]

Nathaniel is impatiently awaiting the arrival of his baby daughter. He's waited a good long time, first for her to land in her mom's belly and then for her to grow and then for her to start kicking. He's loved all the milestones - the scans, the heartbeat, the eyelashes, the hiccups. And he's been to almost every appointment, meeting, check-up, test and site visit. (The baby gurus always seem very impressed.)

With only four weeks to go, Nathaniel is a bit gatvol. Granted, he's not pregnant himself. So he's not heavy, tired, achy, grumpy, hormonal, leaking stuff or feeling like a sleep-deprived psychopath. But he does feel like he's been on standby forever, and that the time has come for his baby to make her entrance.

So what does he do?

Our Nathaniel nests.

He paints furniture. Sands it down and paints it again. Paints it again. Hooks up lighting. Assembles cribs. Packs cupboards. Folds clothes. And then, he takes it a few steps further. Not for him, the traditional hands-off daddying. He develops elaborate systems for the nappy bag, the drawers and the general nursery storage. He labels the shelves. He chooses a home-from-the-hospital outfit. He handles absolutely everything, and then demos it to his daughter's mommy, so she doesn't stuff it up later.

And one evening, he and Wifey sit in their baby's nursery, plotting the contents of her special bag, and Nathaniel gets teary explaining why the baby needs a toy. For company. And so does Wifey, who agrees. And it's a beautiful moment in the baby's beautiful room, with all of the beautiful things her Daddy has conceptualised and thought about and sourced and put together - just for her.

And because you're a very clever girl, Thumps, you've probably already worked out that Nathaniel is your Dad (Daniel Nathan) and that you're the lucky, lucky, lucky girl who has him as her father.

May you get everything from your Dad that I missed from mine, through absolutely no fault of his, and may you get it for many many many years.

Love you.

Mom x

Your name

Dear Thumper,

Hi. This is Mom.

Such a funny thing happened to me yesterday. Well, Dad wasn't as blown away by it as I was, but - that's Dad. Anyway...

I was running a web writing workshop at Absa; the last day in a three-day training series. EEP. It was going well, although I was tired and had a sore back. You know, the usual. We broke for lunch, over which one of the delegates - Claire - asked me if we had a name for you.

I gave my usual answer: 'No, we'll name her when she comes. But we do have a shortlist.' And as you know, there are four names now on the shortlist: M, E, C and N. And as you know, I'm tight-lipped about nothing except the four names on the shortlist...

So, possibly to fill the silence, one of the other delegates, Nomtha, began to tell me about her little boy, and about a friend of his with the same name. You're not going to believe this, but of all of the million names in the world, both of their names are our 'M' name!

How weird?

With one 'l'.

Obviously Nomtha had no idea what was in my head, but my eyes nearly fell out, so shocked was I.

Is it a sign? Is that the universe's way of telling me what your name should be? I mean, what are the odds? She could have said anything. And she said your 'M' name. That's her kid's name. I'm finished.

Right, off to save the day.

May your name - whatever it turns out to be - suit you, and may you suit it.

Love you.

Mom x

Getting there...

Dear Thumper,

Hi. This is Mom.

Just a quick one. To say Hi. And thanks. You've been moving nicely and regularly this weekend, so I'm feeling pretty relaxed. Uncomfortable, achy, fat, ugly and swollen - but relaxed. I've also found (I think) a possible sleeping position, based on J-Lo's 'man pillow' from The Back-Up Plan. Will keep you posted.

Bought some stuff for you, the hosp and the cats today, as well as the all-important (apparently) Rescue Remedy and my prenatal vits. Also bought a food-covering net, believe it or not, to use as a mozzie net and cat-leaping-on-baby-Thumper-prevention-device. Auntie Tanya's idea. She's a genius, my sister.

OH, and we have another name option for you. So now, in addition to the M-name, the N-name and the C-name, there's an E-name. How cool? I like it a lot. Yaya loves it. And Dad doesn't hate it. Which is something. Now all we have to do is see what you look like and seem like, and pick one. Or two.

Off to watch The Wire with Dad now. (Instead of exercising, or nesting, or doing important stuff.)

May you always have the right priorities.

Love you.

Mom x

Hello weekend.

Dear Thumper,

Hi. This is Mom.

I'm doing one of my favourite things: sitting on the couch with Reacher, listening to (but not watching) CSI on PVR while I play on Facebook, YouTube, Twitter and Blogger. Divine.

Dad doesn't like it when I multi-task while watching TV, but he's at a meeting... And it's CSI, which Dad doesn't actually consider television. (Unlike West Wing, The Wire, Weeds, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip and others, which we'll teach you about...)

You're not kicking as much as you once were, but I'm trying not to panic. Apparently you're running out of the space you need to move a lot. Which is what I keep telling myself, over and over. So, I'm sorry if I keep poking and prodding you - I'm just trying to provoke a response from you, so I can breathe.

I'm also consuming a shitload of delicious sugar, for the same reason :) (Thumps, Mom's in for a nasty post-preggie shock, when the time comes to be a thin person again. But hopefully breastfeeding is as good for calorie-burning as they say it is, and hopefully we'll make sterling work of it, you 'n me.)

So, what's left to do? I wasn't kidding in the first post, when I told you I loved lists and organising...

1. Wait for Infantasia delivery (which I'd hoped would come today, but so much for that, dammit...)
2. Pack hospital bags (mine and yours; Dad can pack his own - and yes, before you ask, we need 3)
3. Buy Woolies stuff
4. Buy antenatal-teacher-recommended stuff: Rescue, collofollyn, rosewater spray, juices, snacks, etc.
5. Wait for bumper, blind, Tanya's delivery and bras on order
6. Pack your cupboards and compactum
7. Put up your shelves

Eep, this is quite a long list. I also need to make a contact list for Dad and chase Discovery Baby.

On a completely random note, I'm now watching Oprah. Which I never, ever do. Because apparently there are Vera Wang wedding dresses coming, and I have a bizarre and inexplicable passion for wedding dresses. Wedding expos. Wedding mags. Strange for someone who's happily married, does not intend to marry again, and had a beautiful white wedding first time round. Oh well. Mom's a bit 'different'.

Maybe I'll be one of those Alpha helicopter moms who micro-manages your whole wedding :)

Thumps, more seriously, Mom loves you a lot. Please be okay. Please be fine in there. And please carry on doing such great work and growing healthily and well until it's time to come out. Okay?

May you be perfect.

Love you.

Mom x

Pants off.

Dear Thumper,

Hi. This is Mom.

I'm lying on my beed. Pants off. Heels off. Work clothes (necklace, maternity top, the lot) on top half only. And it's very un-me, but pretty cool. I kind of understand why Dad lies around in boxers so often...

Anyway, it's been one of those days. Long. Busy. Meeting-filled. Client-bedecked. And packed with Mom doing her unable-to-say-No routine and committing to things she shouldn't at 8.5 months preggers.

Typical.

In other news, last night was antenatal class #5 (I think), on 'Mothering the Mother'. And Dad proved how much he loves you, and me, but not stabbing the lecturer - who is sweet, knowledgable and well-intentioned but the worst speaker ever - with his trusty knife or going to hide in the car. Shame, man.

At one point, and I think he may have been serious, he threatened to slice off his own face. Eep.

All is going very well in terms of getting ready for your arrival. Your room finally looks like something: it's been painted; the desk, chair, ottomans, toybox, crib and lights are done; the rug is in; and the blind, bumper, compactum top and few other things are under construction. Dad's done a beautiful job on his end, and our other team members have delivered beautifully, mostly. It's all divinely exciting.

We're living in a bit of chaos downstairs, tho', as Flick's been here for two days - damp-proofing the effing lounge and dining room walls, so you don't get pleurisy - or whatever they got in the old days from rancid, rotting, wet, smelly walls that the previous incumbent concealed and didn't disclose.

But they finished today and hopefully by the time you're here and we're ready for visitors (read: maybe never), the house will look like something again, and be re-wired for the surround sound and alarm...

Yay! (Note: Mom hates contractors. Noise. And mess. They stress her out. A lot. Just so's you know.)

Tomorrow, if it doesn't rain, Speedy's coming to waterproof the roof - so it doesn't rain on your head :)

We really do our nesting in big ways, don't we? It goes way beyond re-packing cupboards and stuff.

Mom's starting to seriously look forward to maternity leave, even tho' everyone says it's hectic and scary and tiring and stressful and goes too quickly and leaves no time for anything, and even tho' Dad predicts I'll be itching to get back to work. I think the part I'm looking forward to is focusing on you: one person. One little 'client', so to speak, who deserves and gets all of my time, attention and energy. Not 20 large ones who drey my kop and must be managed, streamlined, and simultaneously accommodated.

It's possible I have absolutely no idea what I'm in for, and am on the verge of a nasty shock. Let's see.

I wish I could ask you how you are. Is it nice in there? Are you squashed? Are you excited to meet me and Dad? Do you like classical music, or does it irritate you? Does caffeine really make you hyper? When you make those funny alien moves, what on earth are you doing? Can you hear my thoughts and tell from them how much I love you, because I feel like a tit talking to my belly? Who do you look like?

Time will tell. I do hope you know that you're my Thumper, and I adore you - even tho' I don't know enough about motherhood to actually know what that means. Yet. But it'll be very cool to find out.

May you always feel deeply and profoundly loved.

Love you.

Mom x