Four

Tomorrow you turn four. Four years sounds very serious. Not quite serious enough for school, but not frivolous like a three year old. My mother, your Nana, always tells me about how she and my father walked around the rose garden the morning I was born. And then I arrived with a holler at 3.20pm, in time for afternoon tea. Before you were born I would roll my eyes and groan something teenage-y whenever I heard this story; oh Mum, you're embarassing me. But I get it now. I get it because every year on the 4th of February I do the same thing. I tell you about how your dad and I went and had a last supper, well, it was lunch, at Ernesto's. We ate hash browns and eggs and hollandaise. I went to the chemist and bought the last of the supplies I thought I would need to look after a little baby. We went home and packed those few last things in my red suitcase, which is now your suitcase, and then at 5pm we went to the hospital. It was a dull overcast day, a little windy. As we came down the hill to Newtown, Christy Moore was playing on the stereo, a song I'd been teasing your dad about. I asked him how he felt. Scared, he said. When we got the hospital, your dad took photos of me beside the sign at the hospital, with my suitcase and my bump where you were. I knew I wouldn't have the bump next time I stood in the carpark. The same Christy Moore song was on the stereo when we brought you home two days later.

So it's six hours until you are four. Tomorrow when you wake up you'll come into your mum and dad's room and clamber in between us. There will most probably be a tickle fight. I will look at you and see every day since the day you were born, and when you're five, I'll get nostalgic about it.

End of the tunnel

As of yesterday I finished the bulk of a huge project that has had me tied up evenings and weekends for nearly five months. It's been a good project but very challenging in places, especially when the evenings have been long and light and all I've wanted to do is sit in the garden watching my plants grow.
The strain on poor Postie has been immense - I have barely cooked a meal or washed a plate for ages. We've been like ships passing in the night. By the time I get to bed, P has been asleep for a while, and when I wake up, he's already gone to work.
So with Harper up in Auckland until Saturday with his grandies, P and I have a couple of nights to just be. No chores, no work. Tonight, I may even take a walk in the hills, and sit in the garden listening to my plants grow.

It's all happening

Man. We've had an offer accepted on a house - not my dream house - but a house, and as I type, Postie is on the phone to the solicitor nutting some stuff out. It's exciting, terrifying.

And in other news, Harper had his hair cut for the first time today. It's too dark to take decent photos, so standby on that one. Postie did it with some clippers and made rather a nice job of it. Looking at photos of before, I don't know why we didn't do it sooner. H was beginning to look like a member of the Bay City Rollers.

Where I've been

Holidaying. In Northland. At a house not 100m from the most perfect pohutukawa-lined beach ever. I love holidays. Can you see why?
P proved himself the ultimate provider for his whanau by catching a trevally, which we ate with gusto and roast veges.
We even did the unthinkable and had Harper stay with his grandparents in Auckland for two whole nights while we were up norf. Postie and I celebrated being responsibility-free by going to bed early and sleeping late. Ragers, huh?
When H came up he enjoyed splashing about on the beach, moo-ing at the cows and doing the dishes with Monique. Yep, he's into wiping benches and mopping floors too. Gets it from his dad.

Birthday boy, home alone

I've got a bit of catching up on the blog front to do, so here we go starting with the Postie's birthday. We both had the day off work, and I attempted to give him the Most Awesome Birthday Ever (TM) by:

• carting the kid off to creche
• making him eggs benedict and poaching the most perfect eggs ever
• making him a birthday cake while he was out mountain biking
• paying sneakily for his afternoon massage (though the massager guy didn't realise this and P paid for it himself)
• taking him out for swell dinner with our pals at a Mexcian restaurant where a certain girl had too many margaritas because it's been a long time since she really drank anything.. ahem.

The next day, P and Harper jetted off to Auckland to see Gparents, Gmother, and cousin Jessica and her folks, and I was left in blissful solitude for four whole days. I did stuff. I had long soaks in the bath. I ate every takeaway possible. I finished the orange sweatshirt that I started a year ago in sewing class. I watched three seasons of The L Word. I left cups of tea all over the house anywhere I wanted. It was awesome. Oh, and the boys had a nice time up norf too.

Trying to escape from the godmother, One Tree Hill

A conversation ...

... had while reviewing a rather average cafe today with the Postie:

Postie: I could have made that at home myself.
Me: (cramming bacon into my mouth) Uh-huh.
Postie: I wouldn't have had your company though. I could eat poo on toast for lunch if I had your company. Your sparkly eyes. Your laugh lines.

Paintings exhibited; punters look at art, quaff wine

The artist with his best work

The Postie's exhibition opened last night at Roar Gallery, and I have to say I have never seen so many kids run amok in a gallery before. As I was leaving to take Harper home to bed, Sweeney and Leo were squealing with glee at sliding down a wall onto their bums. You won't see that at The Lourve or the Met, let me tell you.

If you haven't been to the show yet, which also features paintings by Ange Lee and photographs by Chris Bramwell, it's on at Roar Gallery until later this month ...

Warning: Post Contains Pictures of Scantily Clad Boys

Having mastered cycling, Harper is now a proficient swimmer. Actually, he's a very accomplished splasher of water rather than a swimmer. He puts a lot of effort and attention into getting as much water onto the clothing and faces of people not in the water with him. Here he is instructing his father on the finer points of splash technique.

Painting and planting

The Postie has an exhibition coming up at Roar Gallery in Abel Smith Street soon, and to get all his work ready he's turned our house into an art studio. Most days he sports a wee smear of paint somewhere on his person (yesterday it was his cheek, the day before that the cheek of his trackpants) and can often be seen looking like he's staring into space, but he's actually staring at one of his paintings propped up against the couch or something. It's exciting seeing his paintings evolve, and wondering what tinkering he will do to them next. It's a group exhibition with our friends Ange Lee and Chris Bramwell, and is called Three: Good Things Come In. It opens at Roar on November 18. Come and take a peek if you're around and want to see good Art.

The Postie is not the only industrious one in the cul-de-sac. I am proving not to be a black thumb in the garden after all. I nursed some lettuces to reasonable size in the late winter and have managed to get some seeds to sprout without too much effort. It's not an ideal garden - we are renting and will only be here another 10 months or so if we're lucky, so I'm not investing a lot of time and effort into producing perfect soil and raised beds etc. I'm also afraid that if I get carried away half of the stuff I plant will die. Anyway, I'm aiming for some beetroot, baby carrots, rocket, cherry tomatoes, more lettuce, and basil, and have chives, parsley, mint, oregano and thyme already well on their way. Wish me luck ...

A nice day for a bike ride

Harper had his first go on a bike just now, sitting in the 'wee ride' that we were given last year. It was Sweeney however, who got to take its maiden voyage, with a tour of the cul-de-sac on Sunday evening.

Weta are taking over our house ...

No, not the highly acclaimed animation company, but actual living breathing creepy crawlie weta. Earlier this week, I was feeding Harper at some hour in the morning when I happened to spy a pair of antennae waving around in one of the cubby hole things running alongside the change table. Closer inspection revealed a ginormous weta having a sip of gripewater from around the lid of the bottle. I duly woke the Postie to get rid of it.

Next night, after a rather terrible day of Harper getting zero sleep but still having the energy to scream the house down, the cat woke me up scratching at something amongst the piles of stuff in the spare room. What it was scratching at? A weta. I duly woke the Postie who chased it under the spare bed.

And then last night, as I lay dozing at some hour of the morning, wondering if the noises Harper was making were going to rev up to full blown hunger, I heard a scratching noise that I thought was Charlie coming in for the night. Then the unmistakable feel of legs skittering over my bare arm, then the revelation of a weta sitting quite calmly on the pillow next to me. I duly woke the Postie, who though he didn't have his glasses on and was in the middle of a rare deep sleep, managed to scoop it up in a towel and fling it outside.

There are only two other occasions I have been in the presence of weta. One clung to my leg as I showered in my Kilbirnie flat in 1998, last seen surfing towards the plughole. The other time was just last year when I interviewed weta expert George Gibbs at his Eastbourne house where he had weta 'hotels' nailed to various trees. They creeped me out big time. I just hope our house isn't becoming a weta hotel too.

So where the bloody hell are you?

37 and a bit weeks and feeling bigger than Jesus

Here I am, on a Monday afternoon while other people are at work, sitting at my dining room table looking out at the cul-de-sac. It's raining and blowing a gale, shaking the perfect-shade-0f-red pohutukawa across the road and rattling our windows. The postie is bored and lethargic (as am I) having fallen asleep on the couch and now reading in bed. This is what it's like waiting for a baby to be born. I'm 37 and a bit weeks, so still have just over two weeks till my due date. However, I am an impatient woman and just want my little boy now. The tiny clothes are clean and folded in his drawers, the appropriate nappies have been invested in and are ready to go, the mobile has been put up over the cot. The cat has been given firm instructions never to enter the room, and P has put up a series of paintings he's done that read "be happy without reason". All the hand-me-downs and new clothes have been put into boxes, labelled and stored in his wardrobe, and I've even sterilised the breast pump and bottles ready to go. My suitcase has been packed for ages now.

However, it seems Tiny wants to stay the full 40 weeks in his luxury accommodation, so we'll just have to wait a little longer. I was born three weeks after I was due - I can't imagine how my mother didn't go insane.

Baby's room when we moved into our flat four months ago. Otherwise known as the room with the stuff that we closed the door on

Baby's room today - ready for liftoff - the cot is unmade to keep the cat off it, in case you are wondering. When the sun comes in in the afternoon, P can be found reading in the rocking chair.

You know what's awesome?

Though the days have been progressively more gruelling at work with me not able to handle the increasing size of my bump and keep my brain going at the same time, every now and then I am reminded of what utter awesomeness I have in my life, including:

• Chrimbo mince pies. I have become a convert. The very fabulous Ann Packer, a freelance writer for the Dompost and craft goddess, brought some in yesterday and they were amazing. Even more amazing with a hot cup of TLeafT English Breakfast blend.
• This morning I got my annual Muji care parcel from Craig in London. This year he's sent Hippo for Tiny and a bunch of other stationery goodies that I am eager to get home and pore over. Tonight I may do something totally nesty and make up the bassinet with Hippo in it. *deep sigh, as am unable to recognise the person formerly known as Kimberley Rothwell*
• Wee Huia Rose was born making my pal Susie Poole an aunty. Welcome to auntyness, Susie. It's ace.

• The Postie has started to pick me up from work everyday so I can avoid the hell known as taking the number 7 to Kingston at rush hour.
• Discovering that lying belly down on Charlie's bean bag is the best thing ever. It almost makes me feel like a normal person again and takes all the weight off me aching bones.
• Realising that after many years doing the whole 'seeking approval from others' thing, that I am surrounded by people who are pretty damn cool and aren't hell bent on making me feel small in comparison to them...

Life is sweet.

Does this make me Mrs Claus?

Hot, hot Santas

Yesterday, the Postie, Bramwell, Melzer, and Mike did the Tour de Peak - a mountain bike race involving riding all the tracks on Makara Peak mountain bike park. They did it in teams - the girls Bramwell and Melzer and the boys P and Mike - with the boys dressed in what can best be described as asbestos/fibreglass Santa suits. P even had a sleeping bag cover inside his suit full of lollies to scatter, many of which I ate before the race even started.

About half way through his run, the Postie came through the finish line area, whacked his bike upside down and fixed something then fled off back into the park with bits of Santa suit trailing behind him. Someone said something obvious like, 'you must be hot' and in a high squeaky voice, the Postie said, 'yes, it's quite warm'. It was a haltingly humid hit 27 degrees. By the end, his suit was in tatters, the crotch of his santa shorts were ripped into a skirt. Very manly, Santa.

He and Mike finished their bits in 1 hour 37 and 1 hour 40 respectively, and came third in their class - they're veterans don't you know... Bramwell and Melzer came in a bit later, but Bramwell made an unexpected appearance at the finish line without her bike, wondering where the hell one of the tracks started - appears it had a 'wrong way' sign posted at the start of it and she was a bit confused.

Just as P returns from a quick dip in the creek after finishing his race, Bramwell crosses the line.

The piece de resistance was when Bramwell and Melzer's names were drawn out of the hat to win a child's seat that fits onto a grown-up's bike, called a Wee Ride. They generously gave it to us - so Tiny and P can go for rides together.

A very nice day, though by the end of it I was craving bed and today even my eye bags have eye bags.

Nine days of work to go!

Nesting

This may or may not surprise you fans of the Postie out there, but he is in nesting mode. Yup, not me, HIM. It's awesome. So far he has been fixer in charge of the practical big stuff, like putting the cot together, giving the second hand buggy we bought a service, re-staining the old dresser that's been in my family since I was a chillun, etc. Good old man stuff, while I deal with the clothes, the bedding, the baby-growing. But yesterday I got home to find he had not only cleaned our wee pad until it was blindingly shiny, but had organised the pantry, thrown out double ups of spices etc, changed the box in which we will keep the baby's hats by the front door (the colour of the box didn't match the stain on the cabinet in which it is kept, P said) and the piece de resistance - he made me a cup of tea almost within seconds of me walking through the door, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf.

He's so awesome.

Pashing, pan pipes and the joy of big hips

This week, the Postie and I had our first ante-natal class at a church hall in Newtown. There was quite a mix of people - from a young Polynesian couple, to a couple of outspoken hippies, to a couple who had been married 15 years and were having their first baby. I thought at the ancient ages the Postie and I are, we'd be one of the oldest in the class but we weren't by a long shot.

I had been anticipating sitting on the floor on mats and it being all very touchy feely with deep breathing like yoga for couples, but it wasn't and for that I'm relieved. We watched a video of some German couples in labour with the most ridiculous soundtrack - kind of like elevator pan pipe music drowning out the groans and screams of the women in labour. As one couple approached the big moment, the music suddenly became very dark and foreboding. In slo-mo, man kisses woman's head as baby's head comes out. As baby's shoulders come out, woman turns her head with an open mouth to pash her partner and has this look of joy on her face as baby slithers out into midwife's waiting hands. It was all very disturbing. The man - who we nicknamed Rolf - sported a moustache of the ugly kind, and his hair was bleached but growing out a bit. He took off for a quiet corner immediately after the birth as the woman cradled and cooed new baby completely oblivious to her partner's impending mental breakdown. Crazy Churmans.

We then had to split into fat women and support people groups - us fat women had to talk about what our expectations of labour were (scary) and what it would be like for our partners (also scary). There was a bit of talking about feelings, which is bizarre with a bunch of strangers, and I felt all kind of weird seeing the Postie go off with a bunch of men to talk about his feelings. The men had to talk about ways they can support us when we're in labour, and I couldn't help but think I don't really want any of that coddling, holding my hand crap thankyouverymuch - I just to get through the whole thing with the Postie still my boyfriend at the end of it, and with Tiny making it out into the world without any medical procedures being required. I’m not good with needles you see.

Here I was going to go into a rant about the politics of birth – of the ‘I’ll Take The Pain Relief Thanks’ camp versus the ‘Home Birth All The Way, Women Have Been Doing It For Thousands Of Years’ camp. But I don’t actually have strong feelings about any of it one way or another. I had a quick squizz at the World Health Organisation website a while ago when I read a newspaper report that 600 babies died in New Zealand last year (that’s between 20 weeks gestation and four weeks old) and found these thought-provoking stats.

NEWBORNS

1. 1 out of 5 African women loses a baby during her lifetime, compared with 1 in 125 in rich countries.
2. Each year nearly 3.3 million babies are stillborn, and more than 4 million others die within 28 days of being born.
3. Newborn deaths now contribute to about 40% of all deaths in children under five years of age globally, and more than half of infant mortality.
4. The largest numbers of babies die in the South-East Asia Region: 1.4 million newborn deaths and a further 1.3 million stillbirths each year.
5. While the actual number of deaths is highest in Asia, the rates for both neonatal deaths and stillbirths are greatest in sub-Saharan Africa. Of the 20 countries with the highest neonatal mortality rates, 16 are in this part of the world.
6. It is estimated that each year over a million children who survive birth asphyxia develop problems such as cerebral palsy, learning difficulties and other disabilities.
7. Nearly three quarters of all neonatal deaths could be prevented if women were adequately nourished and received appropriate care during pregnancy, childbirth and the postnatal period.

CHILDBIRTH AND MATERNAL MORTALITY

1. Maternal mortality is currently estimated to be 529 000 deaths per year, a global ratio of 400 maternal deaths per 100 000 live births.
2. Between 11% and 17% of maternal deaths happen during childbirth itself and between 50% and 71% in the postpartum period.
3. About 45% of postpartum maternal deaths occur during the first 24 hours, and more than two thirds during the first week.
4. Maternal deaths are even more inequitably spread than newborn or child death rates. Maternal mortality rates range from 830 per 100 000 births in African countries to 24 per 100 000 births in European countries.
5. Of the 20 countries with the highest maternal mortality ratios, 19 are in sub-Saharan Africa.
6. The most common cause of maternal death overall is severe bleeding. Postpartum bleeding can kill even a healthy woman within two hours, if unattended. The second most frequent direct cause of death is sepsis; the third is unsafe abortion.

So really, I feel pretty lucky to be just minutes away from a hospital with all the sciencey stuff if I need it, have four midwives looking after me, and for being blessed with big hips.

You know you're really pregnant when ...

the lady at the cafe in the Dompost building and her daughter who works the coffee machine have been discussing whether you are showing or just fat. Funny, they thought that Sweeney was my baby because of how much he comes to visit me. Before they knew my name they called me 'the girl with the baby'.

I must say, I am LOVING maternity pants. No more being cut in half by my waistband! I don't know why they don't have stretchy waistbands on all trousers. They really rock. I am also loving that empire lines are in, so I can get cheap goodies at Glassons in the coming months and not have to buy special maternity tops. I'm 14 weeks today, but still have a pretty upset stomach and the mornings are punctuated by outrageous burping that makes the cat sit up in surprise.

The subs are discussing the last episode of the Sopranos so I'm blocking my ears. I haven't seen this half of the series because 9.30pm is way past this old girl's bedtime, I'm going to have a marathon when it comes out on DVD. The Sopranos are to me what Harry Potter is to those weirdos who like Harry Potter, so when it's over it'll be like losing a friend.

And in other news, the Postie and I are off for a weekend stay at a homestead between Lake Ferry and Featherston tonight. And next weekend, we're off to Noosa finally - I can't wait to be warm again...

Who is this mysterious Postie?

Many of you have been asking who is the Postie?

A-hem.

He's this guy who I happen to be rather fond of, he's kinda cute in a weird facial hair kind of way, he is an actual correspondence delivery technician and yes, he's what some would call my boyfriend. He's also my flatmate which means it's impossible for him not to see me look like a hag when I have morning sickness, but is very handy when I need a piece of toast made and want to stay lying down. He's been rather impressive throughout these difficult months when I've been a bit of a Kimpy-shaped blob. What does he get out of all this? Why, he gets to rub oil on my gloriously white puku. Lucky, lucky man.

I realise my last few posts have been about being pregnant, which is a thing that has happened to a lot of people before me, so what I have to say is nothing new. I promise not to whine on about morning sickness too much longer. Seriously. I'm still slightly disbelieving that this is happening to me, as I had become quite content with the idea of not having kids. So let me rave on a little bit longer. Thanks. Over and out.

How can I go to Cambodia again if I have a baby?

Me, Cambodian-Thai border at Poipet, April 2005. At my feet are a lot of small boys pulling on my trousers, but no babies.

I've been having the most vivid dreams lately, and last night I had one about one of my favourite places in the world, Cambodia. I was riding on a motorbike with my ex-boyfriend Derek and my friend Janna who I was there with in real life last time I went. We were zooming through the post-wet season countryside and everything was a lot lusher and hillier than the times I've been there which have both been in the hot season. I was thinking to myself that I would really like to go back to Cambodia, chuck in my job and just go live there so I could see all the seasons. But there was this nagging in my mind about something I had forgotten. Of course, I'm having a baby and can't possibly just take off like that anymore!

Then I lay there in the dark, and thought, me and Tiny can go anywhere we please, as long as I can get work. Surely - that's what I hope. And of course the Postie will be keen to come with us too. The need to work seems to me more of a leash than having a child does, and though my job is great and my boss Sue is the greatest, I'm looking forward to finishing work at Christmas and having a month to grow my baby and get ready for its arrival. And then spend a year getting to know them.

As well as getting used to the idea that I'm pregnant, and that there's a person in my body that I don't know yet but am going to know everything about, I'm also getting used to the idea that I now belong to my own little family. After Derek, I was by myself for 18 months, some of which were hard while I got over him, some of which were liberating while I lived by myself and made all my own decisions. I've become used to my own company, of doing everything for myself, of planning for noone but myself, and suddenly I have two other people to take into consideration. And then there's our families who will want to be part of Tiny's life in a big way.

But on the other hand, I was sitting on the couch with the Postie last night, and Charlie crawled onto our laps and curled up with us. And I thought about how there were four of us piled onto that two-seater and it made me very happy indeed.

A pregnant pause

So yeah, I've got a new project. I'm growing a baby.

It's almost 12 weeks old, and the last six weeks have been possibly the longest EVER apart from maybe counting down to go overseas, because I've been sick with morning sickness and zonked out with tiredness - common first trimester complaints. But that all seems to be coming to an end as I head into the second trimester... I'm about to start showing and I'm officially allowed to tell people but to me it still seems a very surreal experience. I've just come from the 12 week scan where they test for chromosonal abnormalities by measuring the skin at the back of the baby's neck, known in our household as The Mong Test. The radiologist said everything was looking good healthwise, but we have yet to get formal results. The postie didn't get all misty-eyed at seeing the wee flickery heart beating like I did, he remained quite stony throughout. The baby looked like pictures of scans I'd seen before, a cute wee head, little hands and feet, and it was springing around in my uterus like it's a bouncy castle. It's so weird to think that's going on in my body right now, when all anyone can see is me sitting here typing and smiling to myself a little bit.

So yeah, a new project. An unplanned one, one that has taken some getting used to, and one that will come to fruition in January.

The postie and I plan to find a new flat after we holiday in Noosa (a pre baby plan, I'll be four months pregnant when we get over there), and strollers seem to be our hot topic of conversation lately. That and rocking chairs. His parents and my parents are pleased as punch, Sweeney seems oblivious to the whole thing, but Sweeney's parents are stoked he'll have a cousin.

We are going to find out what flavour it is, but not for another two months or so. I think finding out what sex the baby is doesn't ruin the surprise, as the surprise when a baby is born is that you get a person, not a sex. When I think about the Kid I think about a wee girl, but in my dreams, which are vivid and literal at the moment, the Kid is a boy. I dreamt one night I was having a political discussion with it when it was aged ten and he had shoulder length dark hair all shaggy like teenagers do. I looked at him and thought "wow, I made you." It was wild.