Mrs Grumpy, Reporting For Duty

As you know pregnancy is a time of rainbows and butterflies. Every morning when I wake up bluebirds fly around me and I get out of bed filled with the joy of living and singing a cheerful song. That's just the way it is. It's science.

Except for the grumpiness. Oh man, am I grumpy. If a bluebird tried to sing me a chirpy song right now I'd I'd probably rip its wings right off. Or just glare at it irritably.

Have you noticed how every pregnant celebrity is like this: I just love being pregnant. I'm at one with nature, all earth-goddessy. Now I really know what's it's like to be a woman. Before I got pregnant I only knew what it is like to be a small Holden Barina but here I am an actual woman. I love it so much I wake up singing songs from Doris Day musicals. I'm so happy I'm vomiting rainbows. Because I am a woman at last.

Whereas here is me, pregnant: I hate everything. I don't vomit rainbows. I vomit actual real vomit. All the time. And I don't like it. Someone please tell me how to get a proper night's sleep and for God's sake take these bluebirds away, they're driving me mad. 

Things that have annoyed me this week:

My haircut. I'm starting to think it makes me look like a mushroom. A grumpy one. Here, you decide:

Below, a picture of a mushroom:

And a picture of me, surrounded by puppies and unicorns:

See? Virtually identical. I have mushroom hair. It's only a matter of time before I'm mistaken for a salad.

Other annoying things:

Every store that arranges its stock too close together for my monster-sized pram to get through. And all the people who block my way standing around gormlessly blocking every aisle and walkway. It's hard to contemplate moving two inches to the left, isn't ? Much better to park yourself right in the middle there, splayed out like a big annoying starfish. And why not stand at the exit to escalators while you think deep thoughts? Great idea. That's probably where Einstein came up with the theory of relativity - blocking the escalator at his local Westfield while a woman with a pram fumed silently at him. No problem. I'll just stand here patiently until you've finished.

ABC For Kids. That Jimmy Giggle. Suspiciously perky. Also drives a car made of cardboard for no good reason.

The man who just found someone whale vomit worth 65000. I look like a whale yet if I tried to sell my vomit I would be treated like a fool. The unfairness of it!

The pop-up ad that just appeared on my computer for online dating. For God's sake! If I wanted to look at a doofus with a speech bubble saying "Come to Papa!" I'd turn on 7mate! Go away!

Those charity people who try to sign everyone up for direct debits. Look, if I'd wanted to funnel vast sums of money to your charity I would probably have organised that before now. I am old, I've had enough time to do it. What I wouldn't have done is wait around for the happy day when backpacker wearing a logo-ed t-shirt and holding a clipboard approaches me and asks if I "like puppies".

This headache I've had for three days.

The kitchen. For repeatedly failing to clean itself despite constant encouragement from me.

I think that's it. I'll be back with a less irritable post. As soon I've deal with this mushroom hair and all these unicorns. Unicorn pie, anyone?

Hip Hip Hooray

So it was my birthday not so long ago. Thank you, yes it's wonderful to be twenty. I feel so young and full of potential. And yet so wise. It's true what Whitney Houston said, the children really are our future. I hope you'll find my youthful journey inspiring, like that Justin Bieber.

No. I turned forty. Which is excellent so far. Hips have so far failed to break. Memory as good as ever (i.e. terrible). Eyesight same (see: bat, blind as). I have not yet started to travel everywhere with a small tartan rug and a box of boiled lollies. (Tempted, though. Very tempted). Still have all my own teeth, a great deal too much of my own hair and all vital organs are more or less where they should be and more or less doing their jobs.

Forty is one of those birthdays where people say things like, "But how do you feel about it?" in the same tone they might say, "But what was it like spending eight years held hostage by Somali pirates?" And they say, "Oh, you don't look forty" in the same tone that aged care nurses say to eighty year olds, "Well, aren't you just full of life!". By which they mean, "You're not dead yet! Amazing!" And when I tell them that I feel good, that forty is fine they look at me with pity and compassion.

Someone I know turned forty last year and there were weeks, no months, of complaining and drama and woe, what has my life become! Forsooth I must weep for my lost hopes and ancient bones, alack! We were even instructed that we must buy a Very Special Present to make up for the trauma of, you know, not dying in the previous twelve months. I'm not saying I was unsympathetic but I did mentally roll my eyes a lot.

Because forty is fine. It doesn't feel any different to thirty-nine, thirty-eight or any other number since about twenty-five. Obviously I'm disappointed that I'll never be named one of Cosmopolitian's Sassiest Ladies You've Never Heard Of But Who Look Like They Just Fell In The Eyeliner Vat On Their Way To The Spanx Trough Under Thirty! I'm thrilled, though, that I'm now in the running for Prevention's Least Hip-Breaking-est Ladies Under Ninety! And  I'm one step closer to all those exciting discounts on the seniors card. Check out those savings on dentures. Not bad.

So, in summary: I am old. But happy. And that makes forty feel pretty good. No pity required.

Your Old Friend, Verandah Head.

"Do you want me to cut your hair," my hairdresser said to me, "so it looks a bit less like a verandah?"

This is why I avoid going to the hairdresser. They say things like this to me. Then I spend the rest of my day wondering how long I've had a head like a porch and whether I should just install a small hammock and maybe some cane furniture on my forehead and call it a day.

For the record I agreed to have my hair verandah removed and replaced with a shoulder-length bob. There will be no cranial hammocks in my near future.

I don't know anything about hair. This puts me at an immediate disadvantage when I sit down in the hairdresser's chair because the first thing they always ask is "what do you want done today?" This is akin to sitting me down at the controls of a supertanker and asking me to perform a three-point turn: unwise and likely to end in disappointment. Because I want what everyone who knows nothing about their hair wants: for it to look completely different and spectacularly attractive while essentially remaining totally unchanged. So I sidle into the chair, muttering things like "tidy up the layers" or "just a trim, thanks" and always come out wishing I knew the secret code that all those shiny haired women with the bouncy hair must know.

Is there a secret handshake? Is there a course where I can learn to speak hairdresser? Does everyone in the world just squint at the mirror and shout "That's great!" then run frantically for the door no matter what it looks like?

When I walked out of the hairdresser with my shoulder length bob I met up with G and Tiny J. G stared at me as I came towards him then finally said, "It looks exactly the same. Did they cut it?". Tiny J saw my expression and kept his own council. He knows better than to tangle with a woman and her wrap-around head porch.

This Is No Time For Ginger

Well, hello.

I haven't been here for a while. Not because I didn't have anything to say because I only had one thing to say and here it is: morning sickness is awful. Hyperemesis gravidarum is a big bowl of awful with a little cherry of despair on top.

I wanted to keep writing here. And not only because the cries and whimpers of my vast legions of followers as they stood outside my house begging me to update my blog was a bit distracting. "Please," I would hear them shout, "Can't you just come to the window and complain about Gymbaroo to us? Or at least show us an overprocessed photo taken with no discernable artistic talent? Just one! For God's sake, have mercy!"

But I couldn't.

If I had my blog would have looked something like this:

Monday: I hate morning sickness. Overprocessed photo of the bathroom floor.
Tuesday: Morning sickness. Still horrible. Overprocessed photo of my own miserable face waiting to throw up.
Wednesday: The maxalon! It does nothing!
Thursday: A simple guide to lying on the floor moaning while your toddler hits you in the head with a spatula.
Friday: No, I don't want to hear about ginger. Stop talking to me about ginger. Get away with your ginger. This is no time for ginger. And take your dry crackers with you while you're at it.
Bonus: Photo of the messiest kitchen in existence and a sad person huddled in the corner dreaming of the day when the room will stop spinning.

Ah, the good old days.

Eventually the room did stop spinning and here I am at the good part of pregnancy, where I only throw up occasionally. It's nice. Less vomity, for one thing. I don't spend as much time lying on the floor. I can maintain entire conversations about things other than morning sickness. Tiny J no longer watches ABC for Kids in lieu of having a functioning mother (I am not a violent person but if I ever meet that Angelina Ballerina I will smack her down for being the most annoying tutu-wearing rodent that ever disgraced a TV screen. Don't get me started on Peppa flipping Pig). I don't drag myself through the day counting down the hours until I can climb into bed and pass out.

Things are better and here I am. I feel like myself again. As if I've been away for a long time and I've only just found my way home. G tells me that he missed me all those long weeks when I disappeared and a sad, vomity person took my place.

It's nice to be back.

Snaps: House of Gastro

Tiny J was hit with gastro yesterday. He spent most of the day lying in my lap in front of ABC Kids looking very miserable. Last night the gastro came my way and today it has hit G hard. Tiny J is feeling better but for G and I today the house of gastro is not a happy place to be. Woe.

Snaps: Aaaah

Sometimes when it's a day with the sniffles there's nothing more comforting than a tidy dressing table. I feel like I've accomplished something today other than sneezing and self-pity. Aaaah.

Bless Me. Tissue?

• Tiny J has given me his cold. Bleurgh.
• He is feeling better but is still pale and snuffly. We're a pair of snufflers.
• Not being able to just go to sleep and ignore the world means that I've been fantasising all day about all the places I could lie down and snooze. Bed. Couch. Cold, hard floor. When I caught myself looking longingly at the floor of the chicken coop I knew I was in a bad way (Note: I did not lie down in the chicken coop. You never know where that kind of thing might lead. Don't want to end up as a headline in The Daily Mail "Chicken Coop Napper Says I Won't Give Up My Sick, Feathery Habit. Parents Despair, Kim Kardashian Could Not Be Reached For Comment".)
• A Jehovah's Witness popped by to ask if I was worried about corruption. I had to confess that, not being a talkback radio listener, I wasn't. Nice of her to be worried about me, though, and to come round specially. Maybe tomorrow she'll be over to ask if I'm worried about Death by Sniffle. That's something I am worried about.
• The chickens are now at full production. Six eggs today. Eggs, anyone?
• Here's to waking up tomorrow sniffle-free and finding recipes that need lots of eggs.

Snaps: The Daily Commute

I grew up in a city that had buses, not trains. I love trains. I love the idea of them, more than the sweaty reality. I like to imagine myself catching a train to my non-existent job and all that time to sit alone and read a book. In reality, of course, I'd probably just be complaining about the trains and playing Angry Birds like everyone else.

My daily commute is me and Tiny J walking around the streets together. No alone time for reading but no one shoving me out of the way to get to the door first either. I think I have the better deal.

Bless You. Tissue?

• Tiny J has a cold. He's spent the last two days sneezing all over me - on my face, in my hair and down my shirt. I think I'm now fifty per cent pure sneeze. He's been clingy and miserable the last few days but today he felt well enough to rummage around in his toy box and clonk me in the head with a bucket. I think that's called progress.
• We had a quiet long weekend here. Mostly because to G a long weekend is a normal weekend with slightly less traffic on the roads when he drives to work on Monday. Tiny J and spent the day enjoying the silence when we went out for our walk and, obviously, sneezing.
• Egg production from the chickens is now up to five eggs a day. Desperately searching cookbooks for recipes calling for many eggs. 
• Yesterday one of my contact lenses fell out as I was driving into our street. This caused me to smile and wave at someone passing me thinking I knew them, then realise when they got close enough that they were a complete stranger and grimacing in horror at myself, then attempting to salvage the situation by adopting an expression of zen-like calm as they drove by me. I don't think it fooled them.
• I've discovered gardening. Well, more garden destroying. I started a few days ago by pulling out some scotch thistle and it was so satisfying that I've moved on to pulling out everything I can find that looks like a weed (i.e. most of our backyard). I enjoy it so much that sometimes at night I lull myself to sleep by remembering that satisfying moment when the plant root pulls free out of the soil in one go. I've filled our green bin up already and had to start a big compost pile for all the rest of it. The chickens help me out by eating big armfuls each day as well. I've never been much of a green thumb but it turns out garden destroying is just my thing. Figures.

Snaps: The Endless Quiet

A busy Sydney road on a public holiday. I wish every day could be a public holiday just for the quiet.

I Got the Dots and the Mops

I've deciding to stop kidding myself that I have enough brain power to complete full blog posts on a single topic with all those complicated paragraphs and logical endings. I'm switching to dot points. Dot points will never judge me. *tries to hug dot points. Fails because there is no way to hug a dot point. Pretends I was executing a complicated dance move instead. Presses the button for dot points... now*

• Last night I lay in bed thinking about how much I like my new mop. Then I started to worry that I'm boring. Then I realised that I just have a particularly exciting mop. Relief.
• Dreamt that Tiny J's first sentence was "Two plus two is seven" and I smiled at him kindly and said "No, darling. Two plus two is six". Disappointing to discover the dream version me is a fool. Get it together, dream me.
• Realised writing the above that blogs about dreams are incredibly boring. Sorry. I hope the information about my exciting mop makes up for that.
• It was hot, hot, hot today. Tiny J and I went to the supermarket just for the air conditioning. When we got there Tiny J was grizzly, when we left he was cheerfully demonstrating his wave to the check-out lady and the guy behind the delicatessen counter (it's a good wave, very flappy).
• I am reading Wife 22 by Melanie Gideon. I can recommend it if you like light fiction about women having a mid-life crises. I do. It makes me feel refreshingly cheerful and crisis-free.
• The mop is made by Oates, if you wondering. Proud manufacturers of exciting mops. 
• Tiny J has started using a tiny cloth to wipe the cupboards and floors. This is incredibly cute. And exciting. Can't wait till he learns how to mop. He has a treat in store for him.
• Tiny J and did yoga together today. Or, I did yoga while he mashed banana into my yoga mat. It's a zen thing. While I was doing a downward dog he headbutted me so hard in the nose that I went from downward dog to facefirst whimper. He mashed some banana into my face in sympathy. Again, it's a zen thing. We're very zen here. 
• He didn't clean up the banana. Disappointing. Even pointing out where the mop is kept had no effect. Stupid mop.

Snaps: Green World

Tiny J and I went out for a long walk together this morning. The suburbs were full of boys in cricket gear being loaded into cars by their mums and carted off to practice.  Here comes summer.