It’s one of those things. The kids who you wouldn’t expect have the hang of it in 48 hours and the ones who are super cluey are often the ones who end up pooping on the carpet for the next 6 months. Go figure.

I have a sometimes trained toddler. If I take him he’ll comply but he won’t give any clues as to when it’s a need to situation. Plops, as they’re known in our household were easy to begin with but now the kid seems to have a bit of a hang up on doing them. I’ve tried to look back and consider if I’ve inflicted anxiety on him about it but I can’t recall. It’s just gone all a bit AWOL.

Little Vick has figured out how to manipulate me into letting him wear his preferred outfit of choice. His birthday suit that is. He’s fairly crafty. It’s the if you let me run nude I’ll comply and I’ll be toilet trained. If not, then I’ll give you my shitty jocks to dry retch over and clean all day long. But it’s winter now and that whole nudie thing isn’t quite so practical.

Yesterday, was definitely a highlight in this toot training journey. Nothing could over shadow this one. The morning started off with Little Vick playing outside in our driveway. I look up and there is our boy pooping outside our neighbours unit on their footpath… our conservative, fastidiously clean, wench of a neighbour. Oh Lordy…

Then there was the poo smeared on the wall when we had a little runaway and the poo on our newly steam-cleaned carpets and the 3 pairs of dirty jocks in one small afternoon. I tell you, Easter was the start of this trouble. Easter time did something to that kids bowels that is not natural. I vow to remember this: Easter you are evil.

We’ve tried ice cream, we’ve tried chocolate, we’ve tried ticks on the fridge, stickers, book prizes, high fives and dancing around like banshee’s, even a fireman’s hat (he was toilet trained temporarily enough to win that prize, of course).

I do admit I have contemplated whether or not I should adopt the cat toilet training method which my mother swears by (not that it was her method of training us kids). The one where you rub ones noise in their mess so they won’t forget their accident. You know I am kidding, of course, but the thought has crossed my mind…..

Some other definite highlights in the journey have been:

The first time we took a trip out nappy free. The daunting prospect had to be over come at some stage and I’d done all the right things and sat him on the loo before leaving, talked him through what he needed to do if he needed to go… and yet, I looked down whilst we were in the middle of Target to witness a little puddle directly underneath Little Vick who was looking most perplexed about how it got there. Of course I had not a single thing to wipe it up (moron) and it was all witnessed by a first time Mum to be who had a snobbish demeanor on her face which suggested she believed she would never find herself in such a situation. The naive know better, right?

Then there was the time when I snuck over to a relatives pool on one hot summers day for some relief admittedly without the proper attire for Little Vick to wear. It was during work hours so no one else was home. It was blissful and relaxing until Little Vick decided it was time to let one rip. I knew nothing about it until I saw millions of particles of floating poo bobbing around the water only to start quickly sinking to the bottom. I was both horrified and in a flapping panic trying to collect all the poo, in my bare hands (since I had nothing else), before it disintegrated more and more and it became the big pool of shite and I’d have to admit my actions to my sister in law. I was trying not to drown Little Vick at the time too. So I was a baby juggling, poo collecting preggie. What a farce. Needless to say, I covered it, she never found out (until now).

Then there was the most hair raising moment of all in the toilet training journey. It was a close call. Definitely a wake up call about safety. Peeing can be deadly and I’m so glad we have our Little Vick after he decided to piddle on a double adapter board. I’m not sure what possessed him to do so. It’s no Lemon tree.

There’s been weeks of fully toilet trained behaviour. Those weeks I am doing my little Hallelujah dance about the place and giving myself pats on the back for my excellent mothering. Then there are days like yesterday when Little Vick pooped his dacks and my visiting gf offered to help me clean him up in which I glamorously responded nah thanks, I’m a professional shit cleaner now.

It’s been 5 months now since this journey started and it seems I’ve got one of those boys who knows how it all works but mostly choices not to bothered. Mum will clean it up after all won’t she? I thought I was so smart getting this sorted before Baby Vick arrived. Sooooo smart. Actually, sooo baffled and challenged now. Toilet training a toddler, can be one of the shittiest jobs in the world and if it doesn’t turn you to a pot addiction then you’ll certainly learn it’s a journey which just takes time and an unnatural amount of patience. I see that now.

Image source 

I’m trying so hard to not get too anxious about the WHEN but it’s proving to be a bit tricky. I’m getting that naggy I wanna know or is that something thought constantly in my head just like when I was waiting to find out if I was actually pregnant. So here I am waiting again at the opposite end of it all. It’s the pits really. It eats away at you. The days suddenly seem so much longer. Activities and jobs seem boring and I’ve developed a serious case of the whatev’s.

I’ve had a few restless nights because my mind has been playing cruel tricks on me. I’ve had moments of complete flatness. Blueness. Not my usual style (hormones yes?), I have been saying to myself why do my babies like to hold on??? What is it that makes me so good at carrying babies that I want to keep carrying them… for like, ever. I was crucifying myself about this the night before I was even due. I’m a moron. Complete and utter nutter. That anxiety is probably exactly what is keeping that little baby in there holding tight.

Needless to say, I’ve been displaying a bit of a punky attitude with all these thoughts and emotions and hormones swirling around. Mr Vick is running a gauntlet trying not get stuck or in trouble too much. So far, he hasn’t filed for divorce despite the I’m full term and I can be moody if I want to being thrown around. No man should think his sensitivities will get considered at such a time surely?

It’s not all bad though. We have been happy little homing pigeons too the past week and it’s lovely to spend that time so insular with our little boy who’s very existence is also going to change dramatically within moments of the babies arrival. I’ve been noticing all his beautiful little ways. Trying to play a little bit more with him. Laughing with him more. Snuggling more. He deserves it. He is divine. I guess that’s what I’m doing all this for right? To get another delicious little person? I have to keep telling myself this when my mind flickers to visuals of labour trauma which includes an image of me splitting in half delivering this precious little person. I know, I’m being dramatic aren’t I? But I think I’m a tinsy bit scared…

With that said I have been trying all the usual old house-wife tricks of the trade to get things moving. I’m such a skeptic though. They’re all such a heap of hooey, but do you think I can shake the idea from Mr Vick’s head that nooky is going to bring the baby on?? It’s a wives tale that I suspect was actually conveniently mustered up by a husband because every woman knows nooky when you’re 40 weeks knocked up is the most awkward, un-sexy and un-porno thing EVER.

I’ve tried curries, walking, massage, even gotten some Clary Sage oil out… nothing. Nuda. Zilch. I was hoping through my reading that there would be a recommendation for junk food for inducing labour, ‘cos then I’d totally have my legs up in the air. Last night I had Mint slice biscuits, M & M’s, salt & vinegar chips and Ginger Ale for my telly viewing. Zippo on finding any reading proof on that however. I think there was only mention of double chins.

Physically I’m more and more like a 99 year old. The pressure in my bum at times creates almost a numbing sensation… (and yet nothing??). When I try and roll over at night I have to heave my stomach up and slam it over. I grunt and get puffed. I actually get puffed from rolling over in bed. See, time to evict the baby before my lungs collapse!

Not many preggies get excited about this, but I’ve developed some cute little Braxton Hicks. Something I didn’t experience with pregnancy #1. I find them endearing. Some more proof I’m a crazy lady I know, but they suggest hope that things are warming up and so I don’t mind Mr Hicks hanging about in my belly. This time too my vanity must have departed because I don’t seem to mind the big spider stretch marks which have developed across my spanning belly. With Little Vick I was uber conscious of them and diligently smearing cream on the bump twice a day. I was afraid of having stretch marks and felt fortunate to only got a few cute ones low at the very end. This time it’s a complete stretch mark blow out. I have that stretched to the beejebers skin now and I’m OK with it. It’s a mark of my bodies triumphs. I have a sense of pride about them.

Tomorrow I head to the hospital to check up on this naughty little bubba. They will make sure I still have a devoted placenta and enough fluid to keep the baby swimming a bit longer. I am also quite certain they will start poking around in there trying to irritate that cervix which seems to wanna hold tight. THEN there might be some real action. Please feel free to barrack for Baby Vick’s arrival, pronto. Come on, let me hear you say it: EVICT THE BABY! EVICT THE BABY! EVICT THE BABY! EVICT THE BABY!

If you’ve been a baby carrier, did you go over?

Thanks to Essentially Jess and her #IBOT linky party for me letting join in

It was all about the right dress! Thanks ASOS, Dorothy Perkins, Metalicus & many a corner Nanna Op Shop for your assistance in my bump styling.

And when my hair has been looking super crapola, which is most average days with preggie lackluster, the old trusty vintage scarf has stood by me for a bit of colour and flare.

So, hip not just hippopotamus?

I wish I was cute and petite and getting about in a little pink tutu teamed with a fitted singlet with my nips bra free just like Carrie, but no, I did this shoot in my 40 week, bosoms ready to fire milk, condition. WTF right? Like seriously, WTF?!?!?! The world has gone mad I tell you.

Doing a modelling shoot at 40 weeks pregnant was not something I had ever thought possible. Not a non maternity shoot anyway. Not in my wildest dreams. It’s cray cray crazzzzzyy! Even though I have always dreamt my entire life of being able to say: Vicki: Coming to a bus near you!  

The idea is the belly will be chopped out. No one will even have an inkling of my expectancy. In theory. It’s a boobies and up kinda thing. The type of situation which has made me question whether my preggi-ness has indeed given me a little extra chub around the face, a little extra chin… but hey it didn’t stop me gorging on a bag of Clinkers last night before the shoot.

The gig itself is an advertisement for a Kleenmaid oven. Neat stove at that. I was tempted to ask for my payment to be in the form of an oven but then I’d have to actually bake right? Not just pretend to be a glamour puss house-wife who diligently whips up a trays of cupcakes. As I’m sure you all do.

The first debacle was deciding, no wait, finding something, anything, that would be appropriate AND fit to wear. I almost dropped to the kitchen floor with laughter when the marketing lady asked if I could just pop on a red halterneck dress for the shoot…. like yep sure, I’ve been wearing one my entire pregnancy. They totally look uber sexy on gestating woman. How could I explain I had been mostly reduced to trackies and stretchy Target tops for the past month?

Then there was the hair. I was supposed to come in with my own 1950′s hair style… I have done many a vintage hair do in my time but lets be frank since becoming a mother almost 3 years ago my hair has been lucky to catch a glimpse of a hair brush… so I started my day off busting out the old school, dusty, hot rollers which mean’t Mr Vick woke to this vision of housewife goddess-ness:

Stunning isn’t it? (*sarcasm to the max*) You will also note the slight pink burn on the forehead from straightening my hair over the weekend… that was excellent timing but half an hour with a make up artist and I was this glamour puss:

Yes. I could keep that make up artist. In fact I never want to take my make up off. I’m considering having it tattooed on. The hair never did look very 1950′s but it was done at least.

Then I lined up for a few test shots

And got paid to smile for the next hour and look ‘Mumsy’

and bend my legs a bit. Yah, I was totally doing squats on and off for an hour to play hidey with the bump. Not looking quite so model like under the bench.

And that was my day getting my Mumsy model on. Now I just wait for the final image which will be plastered across some bus and then I will be susceptible to a lifetime of jokes about how I indeed look like the size of a bus…

Tomorrow I’m 40 weeks pregnant. D day arrives and now I will sit and behave and be a proper preggie for whatever time I have left. I will do my best anyway

You can follow Mugshot photos on Facebook & Instagram

Part of me suspects that I book so much in pre baby ‘cos in the depths of my mind I think once this baby arrives I will never be able to leave the house ever again. An exaggeration of course, but none the less it’s a fact that my freedom will be more restricted with 2 children. For a bit anyway. So why would I say no now whilst I’m able? Well… plenty of people can give me a multitude of reasons. In fact I am constantly cautioned by those who know better, or who love me.

Of course, I have had to be very conscious of looking after myself. I learn’t the hard way recently. You can pretty much guarantee that if you go out with you gf’s until 2am, that will be the morning your toddler decides to rise and thump about the house at 6am and demand your full attention. All day long. I wanted to kill myself. For the next 3 days actually as I tried to catch up on the sleep thing. Definitely can’t do party like I used to.

I do have one final social event on the pre bubba calender however and that’s on tonight and yes, it is a big ask. We’re travelling down to our home town of Warrnambool for a relatives birthday celebration. It requires a 2 hour car journey both ways which seems to frighten the bejeebers out of everyone except me. Mr Vick knows not to bother persuading me otherwise but my father in law is nervous about it. Almost breaking out in a sweat at the thought. I told him it would be all good. Going to Warrnambool was not like travelling to Europe and we already know that trip has been done! My sister in law who is 36 weeks pregnant won’t be making the trip for the party. I can’t blame her. It’s sensible but I just don’t see myself missing out. Besides a long car trip might be just what this baby needs to get moving out and as I keep reminding people Warrnambool does have a hospital.

One preggie at the theatre during the week

Last night whilst I was out at the theatre, again, my gf noticed the amount of people blatantly staring at me. Everywhere I go there are eyes on me. People can’t help but look. It’s true, I take up a lot of space and I don’t try and hide the fact that I’m expecting. I’m bumpin’ and proud. I have stopped noticing the eyes which continuously follow me but my gf’s find it amazing my celebrity like status and the constant attention pregnancy seems to evoke. Men gawk and woman often give me greasy stares. Why? I’m not sure.

I looked around last night and asked: where are all the other preggies? Not another in sight. Come to think of it, I haven’t been seeing any out past dark or rooming the city streets…for like, ever. Are they hibernating in the warmth of their lounge rooms getting massages from their doting husbands? Are they taken hostage in the supermarket by their own cravings? Have they been shipped off to the quiet confines of suburbia? Mr Vick did attempt that but he couldn’t stop the trains departing for the city and me getting on them.

I had the same realisation when I was in London. People liked to look at me there too. I did not see any other preggies whilst playing tourist in London. I just thought it was a London thing. Once children are in the picture families can’t afford to live in the pricey metropolis of London, but it appears to be the same here in Melbourne. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are plenty of cutesy expanding bumps hidden underneath the black winter jackets that walk the streets of Melbourne but certainly no statement bumps demanding for the public to move aside for them to get through. No I’m gonna drop me waters on ya foot kind. Except for me.

So, it does make me ask, am I too adventurous for a preggie? Am I not behaving as a preggie should? Have I missed something? I know. I should be getting as much rest as I possibly can. I should put my feet up and have hot baths and all that but it’s just not me to lay low. I don’t think it ever will be. I consider it my youthful duty to participate in normal young people things. Life stuff. To stay in the loop with pop culture, with my friends who are yet to do the family thing. If I didn’t I just wouldn’t be myself and I am so fortunate to have a husband who encourages me and supports me. He has been the best house wifey the past few weeks just so I can be a social, money spending butterfly. I know not every preggie is blessed with that.

Times have changed for preggies. In my mothers generation you did stay home. You hibernated for the final month of pregnancy because you were a delicate commodity who should not be rushed, stressed or exerted for fear of going into labour or causing complication. You also didn’t sing from the rafters I am knocked up with a clingy, skin tight, look-at-me polka dot dress. You behaved and dressed with much more subtlety. It was all loose fitted, moo moo’s from what I can gather. The type of outfit that only makes me want to dry retch.

Such attitudes are still present in different areas of the world. I recall a time when I was in Italy and had to catch the train from Venice to Rome and when I enquired about the duration of the train trip the hotel attendant took one look at my 28 week bump and told me it wouldn’t be possible for someone in my condition. I politely chuckled and informed him that I was required to be in Rome so that I could catch my 26 hour flight back to Australia, solo. He nearly fell flat to the ground.

Perspective is an interesting thing. I have never viewed myself as having a condition. To be fragile or particularly delicate. If anything pregnancy gives life and a chance to celebrate it and I listen to my body. I’m careful with her, but she is a trooper no doubt. It’s true, I am a blessed preggie.

How do you do pregnancy? Where you delicate with yourself or did you keep busy?  Would you be making the 2 hour trip at 39 weeks pregnant? Tell me, tell me….

It’s on my mind you could say. The whole, having a baby thing. Particularly the part about getting it out. I’m curious about when the big moment might actually occur. Little Vick was induced 13 days overdue. The conditions in my uterus were obviously so convincingly blissful he thought he’d take up permanent residence. That was until he was abruptly evicted. That part wasn’t as much fun as I’d hoped so I am keen to get the naturally occurring experience. I’m hoping for a baby who is more than happy to pop out and say hello without a jab of synthetic oxytocin this time. Perhaps you can send me your good, natural labouring vibes please?

So it starts happening and then I have to get through the ‘happening’. I’m in 2 minds about that. I’m both excited and nervous about the prospect of labour again. I know, that’s normal but sheesh, can’t I stop the imagery in my head? I think labour and in a second I see images of an angry, vocal, labouring cow that was me who wanted to give up, who wanted to slash anyone who came near me with another needle and a big stretching poonani, and stitches….that was my labour in a nutshell. There’s my birth story in paraphrased format. It was ugly. And wonderful. But ugly.

Don’t get me wrong, my labour first time round was uncomplicated and perfectly fine and I coped like a champion for an intense 4.5 hours showdown. I was actually lucky. But labour is never easy or pleasant. Never. I’m trying to decide if it is better first time round where you really have no idea and the fear is of the unknown or if it’s worse when you do know exactly. Either way, I’m not too sure if One Born Every Minute is recommended viewing at this point in time and yet I sit up and watch it as a fat bellied fool each week both fascinated and getting freaked. Someone knock me out please?!

So whilst I grapple with the mental side of labour the physical is coming along without too much encouragement. It’s like the Great Wall of China has landed on top of my pelvis. I walk sometimes like I am carrying dumbbells right there on my little pelvis and there’s definitely a corker kinda feeling happening. I’m just waiting for Baby Vick to tap me on my thighs whilst I’m strolling along down the street.

And… let me tell you, the only time in your life when you might get excited about having a case of the runs is at the end of a pregnancy. That is precisely what I’ve had on and off for a week now and excitement because it can be a pre-labour symptom. It is not unusual to go into labour a couple of days after experiencing the trots. But you know, a week on…. and all I’ve had is an excessive use of toilet paper and a whole lot less sleep. At night if I haven’t been up going to the loo I am laying in bed wondering if I am indeed going to go into labour. Like as if I fall asleep I might miss the occasion.

So, there is much anticipation. Mr Vick is anticipating the big moment too, naturally. He doesn’t seem to share my reservations and Little Vick… well he seems fairly non plussed, as you would expect from a 2 year old. His motto, which probably is a good one for me right now, is play on! Just keep playing on.

Today I am linking up with Essentially Jess for the #IBOT linky party

Happy days

and this:

Comes a new lovable production of double trouble.

See in production sneak peak pictures here first:

Megumi: 26 weeks pregnant and me, 28 weeks

Grandchildren come into this family in two’s. Megumi and I are sisters by marriage. We married 2 brothers. We had our first babies within 4 months of each other and now we return to the preggie state again, together, with just a mere 2 weeks apart.

Our pregnancies are both healthy and yet different. Megumi is a typical preggie who endured nauseating morning sickness for the first trimester, she gets back ache, uncomfortable Braxton Hicks and then there’s me, who with a bit guilt says this – gets none of it. There are days when I have been envious of her Braxton Hicks… I mean, what do they really feel like? And moments that I wished I could just take a days worth of morning sickness to ease the burden even if just momentarily for her.

In Japan, Megumi’s home country, a woman is expected to only gain up to 5 kg’s during her entire pregnancy. I know, I know… crazzzzzy hey? Megumi at times wishes she could keep to that strict norm. I, on the other hand eat 5 kg’s of chocolate a night and replicate a motto a little like get fat and get beautiful during pregnancy. I’m not always a good influence.

It’s special bringing new additions into a family together. We regularly check in with one another. Talk symptoms, birth, parenting conundrums. We became Mothers together. We empathise together. We learn together.

Little Vick and his cousin learn together too. They have a special bond. They’re so close, in age and in heart and now they will face the challenges of welcoming a new sibling together. Siblings who I hope will be bonded just as the first pair are in time to come.

So now, we are taking bets about who will have their baby first! Little Vick put his feet up and stayed put (he arrived 2 weeks late after being induced) and Megumi who had a BIG baby first time round may need to be brought on early…so who knows who’ll get to meet their babe first :) We often joke we could be in the birthing suite together. Yes, that would be a bit freaky.

Here is our latest & probably final preggie bump shot together:

So who’s your money on?

Today I am linking up with Essentially Jess via the #IBOT linky party

A Knocked Up Thought: I can’t help but hear the 1980′s hit “The final Countdown” do do do doo, do do do do dooo in my head. You hearing it too? Although I suspect it is probably a couple of weeks premature, but hey, stranger things have happened right? There is definitely a building sense of excitement in our household. It’s nice. There’s nothing ordinary about our existence at the moment. There’s a sense of anticipation, a building climax. There’s preparations. It’s pushed Mr Vick and I into talking about stuff. The denial about the imminent change is being forced to unveil a little. We’re talking about what we would have carefully considered and contemplated months ago with my pregnancy with Little Vick. Things like birth preferences, a carer for Little Vick during birth, what life is going to be like…. ya know, pretty important kinda stuff. We’ve been feeling super cool and relaxed, which I think isn’t a bad thing.

The nursery is in development. Finally. Mr Vick reluctantly gave up his man cave for this bubba in belly and I’m now trying to find homes for things that once occupied our spare room/Mr Vick’s man cave. It’s fair to say it doesn’t yet look too much like a nursery but it feels like a space for the baby and that is keeping my nesting preggie contented (and quiet). I’ve started the wash up of teeny tiny clothing and I was delighted to see such mini me things on our clothes line once again. I’ve even packed up my hospital bag. In honour of this I had to stock up on some things that I haven’t seen for nearly 3 years. I can’t say I was that stoked to be perusing the breast pad section once again. Sigh.

Also I’ve noted how I am an elderly ladies best friend suddenly. For the most part they haven’t wanted to know me until now. Now that I am the goddess of fertility and it’s all out on show I’m like a magnet to the old. You can guarantee our conversations go a little like this: you musn’t have long now? No, just a couple of weeks. Is it your first? No, I’ve got another another. Boy or girl? Boy How old? 2 and a half Oh well…. you’re going to have your hands full then aren’t you?! Their warmth and obvious sentimentality for this time in their life is endearing. I do like the old ladies. It reminds me what a special time in my life this is.

A Knocked Up Feeling: Oh don’t worry my mental state is rock solid. Kinda. Picture this. Me hitting a curb whilst parking the car, and bursting into tears ’cos Mr Vick gave me the slightest (and I really do mean slightest) WTF kinda looks. Complete emotional break down was had on my behalf and Mr Vick did not even say a single word to cause it. So we sat in the car, me sobbing, Mr Vick looking desperately concerned and perplexed about what he’d done to cause such a catastrophe. It passed and we got on with it. Nothing more was said about it.

The Knocked Up Physical: I have gotten to the point where I can’t remember what it’s like to not be knocked up. To just have my body to myself. To not share it. To not look and feel like Humpty Dumpty. To not be restricted bending over, getting up, seeing my lady bits even. I am looking forward to the relief that will be brought about after getting Baby Vick vacated and once again having ownership and perhaps it’s not too far away???? A visit to the midwife nearly 2 weeks ago informed me that Baby Vick’s head has started to engage in the pelvis. Woot! This got me excited (Little Vick was induced 13 days late) about the possibility of a naturally occurring labour. Apparently the baby is almost half way engaged which could mean something or nothing for my imminent labour.

I’m happy to report that some of the physical bothers noted in my last wrap up post have let up a bit making me actually well and without complaint. I know. That shouldn’t happen. Isn’t it supposed to be getting worse for me at this point? No self induced back ache from over eating, no mad weeing dashes to the loo during the black of night, no puffiness, no lack of space for food consumption. All smooth sailing. It’s true. One of my talents is pregnancy.

Knocked Up Foodie: I somehow have convinced myself that Cadbury Snack chocolate should be a daily addition in my diet.

The Babe in the Knocked Up Belly: There is a mighty fine circus performance going in there pretty much full time every day.

Favourite Preggie Moment: We have the nappies ready to go. The newborn, itty bitty, unbelievably mini nappies that seem way too small to fit any little toosh into. I opened up the box with Little Vick and we both were overwhelmed with goo’s and gah’s at how unbelievable adorable they are. Little Vick too had a moment of realisation about just how small his sibling is to be. It was a lovely moment shared.

Knocked Up Bump Watch:

Here’s the heifer lump… looking all round in her glory…