Welcome Luca!

One load of washing per day!

Yes, the little man, who weighs in at less than 3 kilograms and is only 49 cms long generates one load of washing per day!

Maybe that isn’t the best welcome to my blog that my gorgeous son should have. Let’s backtrack one week.

So Daniel and I head to the obstetrician for our weekly check up last Wednesday. All’s well. Feeling fine. I’m just huge, tired and uncomfortable. But generally in line with how a 39 week pregnant woman should be feeling. The doctor is doing her usual poking and prodding my stomach feeling the baby and she decides that there isn’t enough fluid around the baby and that I need to go for a further scan to “check it out”. Check it out? That’s so casual! I was beside myself!

The next morning, as instructed, we go to “check it out” on the big screen at the ultrasound place. They, like the doctor, agree that there isn’t enough fluid around the baby so we sit and wait (nervously) for the doctor to call us to discuss the results. Then, in a whirlwind it’s decided that I need to have an emergency caesarean and soon enough I am at the hospital and in an extremely unflattering hospital gown waiting to be cut open.

After an epidural numbed me from shoulder to toe and the eight people in the operating theatre decided to get started. The doctor pulls out (they are Daniel’s words) a baby boy. WHAT?!? A boy? I had thought for the past nine months that I was going to have a little girl. I was surprised. I don’t know if it was the fact that I was loaded up to my eyeballs with drugs or the sheer excitement, but the doctor had to lean over the partition and show me. It’s a boy! Wow! I am just delighted, overwhelmed, overjoyed. I can’t list all the feelings I had all at once! I am now surrounded by gorgeous men, ALL THE TIME!

So at 7.20pm on 15 April 2010, Luca Mario was born. He weighed just 2.73 kilograms (I think that’s about 6 pounds old school) and came out just starving! And in the 12 days since he was born, he has made up for lost time with eating!

The dilemma started. I was HUGE, so I assumed that I would have a HUGE baby which would be in 000 size clothes. As such, the only thing I owned in 0000 was one jumpsuit, which Luca dirtied before we even left the hospital for our trip home. Lucky for me, Daniel’s cousin has generously lent me all the 0000 outfits she had. What a life saver!

So back to where I started. Somehow the gorgeous Luca generates one load of washing per day. Not even Mummy and Daddy can manage that!

I’ll blog about life at home soon. It’s been a whirlwind of limited sleep and limited eating (for Mummy and Daddy), not for Luca!!

Farewell Inny...

Yes, it has got to that time in the pregnancy where my once inny bellybutton is about to become an outy. I am not ready for this.

Stretch marks, prepared.

Waddling, coping.

Needing a crane to turn over in bed, dealing with it.

But the turncoat attitude of my bellybutton is, what I think, the ultimate betrayal! Daniel can attest that we mused about the bellybutton issue early on and we both decided that it would never become an outy. The bellybutton was so convincingly on the inny team we had not issue confirming that it will stay that way. Well, I believe Signor Navel has not received that memo!

I’m getting a little concerned. Will it go back to its inny ways after it has changed teams? Will it forever be out and proud? I’m told the stretch marks will leave of their own accord at some point, but no one has told me about the workings of the bellybutton. Is there anyone out there to help? Are there a gang of inny police which will try to straightened out my team-changing bellybutton?

Can it be shocked back to being in? Advice anyone?

Things are a changing...

Yes, I am looking down the barrel of potentially 12 months leave.

Yes, I am about to embark on motherhood.

Yes, we are about to move into a new place.

Yes, I am turning 30!

All of the above is about to happen over the next 4-6 weeks. Hang on tight.

So I feel as if I am comfortable with most of the changes I have listed above. A maximum of 12 months leave is a blessing. I can't wait to be the 'little woman' at home. Making sure Daniel's shirts are ironed. Making his lunch. Baking the odd cake in the afternoon. Let's revisit me saying that in six months time. I have had some great times at work - see photos on the right for example.

Motherhood is looking a little more scary. In class last week I realised just how much I didn't know about being a mother. I mean who knew that you needed different washing powder for the baby? Who knows what it will be like. Millions of women around the world manage, I am sure I will too. Right?

The 'new place'. Well if we ever get in there, I'm sure it will be great. Not that I can't say that Daniel and I haven't had our fair share of family help with the renovations. My poor father and brother had been slaving away every weekend for close to two months trying to get us in there. I have been trying to play project manager to all these works. It just would be easier if 1. everyone turned up when they said and 2. I had the ability to take all their calls as soon as they ring.

And now for the big one. The big 3-oh! I am totally fine with my birthday and ageing. Contrary to popular belief I don't have issues with my birthday, I am just happy with a small dinner with family on the day. Unlike some people I know who like a week-long carnivale for their birthday - no names DANIEL! So last week at a lunch, one of my younger colleagues was talking about how she mostly hangs out with the 'older' girls at work. "How old is older" I inquire. "30" is the innocent reply.

Well if I wasn't paranoid about turning thirty, should I be now?

Just when you though there wasn't any more dignity you could lose...

Yes, for all those who read this but don't know me. Is there anyone out there? I am 7.5 months pregnant. I am about two and a half minutes away from permanently wearing a moomoo. I cannot see my toes. Actually, I haven't been able to see them since about 4 months. I definitely can't reach them either! Maybe I am prematurely aging into a baby boomer - see my last post.

So in the last seven months Daniel and I have shared in the utter excitement of the notion that there will be a Cavalino (or Cavalina) cohabiting our house in April 2010. Yes, 19 April 2010 is the due date. Will happily accept all flowers, gifts, chocolates etc. OMG, that is less than two months away. I guess now isn't the time to panic, but when is a great time? Maybe the thought losing all my dignity during this pregnancy and the birth could be a good time to have the heebie-jeebies set in.

At our pregnancy and birth class at the hospital last weekend Daniel and I learnt of the upcoming horror that sounds like the birth. Can I say that I am too posh to push? No way mate. That's not me! So what is the alternative? Well according to our softly spoken midwife in sensible shoes, I will not have a shred of dignity left after the experience. Hmmm.....I find that hard to believe. I mean I have been reading all the current maternity magazines and they swear that you too can have a glamourous birth. Is that an oxymoron? Is that possible? Well, according to this one magazine, lip gloss, colourful socks and a bright headband will be both practical and stylish during the birth.

What, my legs in stirrups wouldn't be?

Is Column 8 as elitist as I think?

I am usually a constant reader of the SMH online. Not usually for its endless number of articles about boring political things or its constant croaking about Sydney is becoming a toilet. But mostly for the entertainment gossip, TV reviews and of course the Ken Ken. Yes I admit, my name is Romina and I am a Ken Ken addict. It started, like most challenges in my life, that I saw someone else doing them, so I thought I can do them too. This is how I started onto Sudoku's and oysters. I become obsessed because everyone else is. Some might call it a 'bandwagon'. But I am opposed to that term. I like to refer to myself as a total non-conformist. So to say that I am band-wagonistic is a big call.

Now back to Column 8. For all those familiar with the SMH's Column 8 I wonder who else agrees that they find it totally out of touch with reality. Did I miss an 'in joke' in 1996 and have never been able to recover from it? Who are these people from the Lower North Shore who write in and what in God's name are they talking about? Take the recent 'Six foot man eating chicken' discussion. Or the discussion about Baby Boomers counting on their fingers.

I mean, what else do you use? They probably haven't been able to reach their toes since 1983, let alone count on them!

So there brings me to a flash-in-the-pan return to my blog. I apologise to all those who follow me but were feeling rejected as I hadn't posted anything in a while. But life has been busy. More about my consistent loss of dignity for the past seven months next post.

Cubicle chatter

As my colleague and I found ourselves walking in the same direction to the ladies room, I use my usual line “Are you following me?” It’s not as funny the 50th time around I discovered. So, we are talking, talking, standing oh so close to the toilets. At this point I should note that I am BUSTING to go. I am about 3 seconds away from doing that dance where you clench your legs together and start wobbling around like a spinning top. At that point, we decide that the conversation ends there and we continue with our business in private. Which brings me to the ultimate question. When does the chit chat end when you go to a public toilet?

In my effort to make sure that this blog is well researched and representative voice of the Joe Public (or Jane Public), I did a snap poll around the office about toilet etiquette. I had varied answers, not quite all consistent. There seems to be a few ‘types’ when it comes to the bathroom - that is the ‘no talkers’, the ‘low talkers’ and the ‘loud and proud talkers’.

First, the ‘no talkers’. This person will refuse to continue the chit chat beyond the cubicle door; however the conversation may well end at the entrance to the bathroom, you just never know. And that is what makes a ‘no talker’ hard to frequent the bathroom with. What if they leave you hanging? (well, your conversation that is!) Imagine the embarrassment of assuming that Jane Public and you are walking into the toilet at work. However, you don’t know that she is a ‘no talker’ and you, on the other hand, are a ‘loud and proud talker’. The conversation may fall to Jane Public with an innocent question, such as “What is on for the weekend?” Suddenly, all you hear is silence. Have you been snubbed? Have they not heard? Should you repeat yourself? (only to be snubbed again) Or, on the other hand, is the ‘no talker’ obliged to continue the chit chat, even if feeling uncomfortable?

Next, we have the ‘low talker’. The low talker has characteristics similar to the no talker, except that if you know you are venturing to the loo with a low talker, you choose the cubicle next to that person. But then, that brings up a whole other blog topic relating to personal space (another time peeps!)

Then finally, you have the ‘loud and proud talker’. This person has no boundaries when it comes to talking in the loos. The chit chat will continue whatever may be happening – even if you are busy concentrating on your business (so to speak!)

Who would have thought that the public toilet could raise so many social issues?

To the loo, ahoy!

Trainspotting

If you haven’t ever heard me whinge about public transport, more specifically the trains, well you mustn’t listen in close enough. Because to tell you the truth I whinge about it a lot. Its not the trains per se, it’s the other passengers. Firstly, there is the Clockwork Missisa (funny dialect word I picked up – Daniel can’t supply a direct translation, but he tells me this lady on the train is definitely a Missisa!). So Clockwork Missisa, who catches the same train AM and PM and sits in the same seat, doesn’t like sharing that seat. It’s public transport love, the whole ‘public’ concept seems to be lost on her. So one day I dare to sit next to her on the empty seat. She looks at me – cranky eyebrows. Then as I settle in – she pinches me. Yes, pinches! She says “turn your earphones down’. Now, seeing that I could clearly hear her would suggest that my earphones weren’t actually that loud. So when I respond that I don’t think my podcast of First Tuesday Bookclub is what is offending her ears, she quickly stopped pinching me. So now Daniel and I sit near her and talk quite loudly when we see her on the train, just to annoy her. It’s a sick hobby of ours!

So, Missisa aside, we are on the train last Friday, running late for a dinner with close friends. It was Friday night, and like some of the other people on the train, we were also thinking about what we would wear and how we would look (that’s more for the ladies regarding make up). But then, I turn my head to the side, mostly to increase the volume of our conversation towards the Missisa and I spot another lady with a compact mirror in her hands, held up to look at her face. So I start thinking, hmm, good idea, maybe my make up will need a touch up prior to us racing off to dinner. So as she raises the black item to her face, I’m thinking, yep, more eyeliner. Then the black item continues past her eye and moves toward her eyebrows. Hmm, an eyebrow pencil, good luck with that on the train. Um no, it wasn’t an eyebrow pencil either. It was tweezers and she was plucking her eyebrows!! Is this is beyond the acceptability of social niceties?!!

Who’s the Missisa now?!!