3-2-1...

The paperwork sits to the left of me on the desk. I've placed in on the bottom of my 'pile' of things, because it's the largest of the pile of items, and that is how the pile works; by size. Some days the pile is really quite messy, containing effortless amounts of procrastination. Today it isn't.

I am at a loss as to how to write about this. My head is in my hands, searching for the right words in my brain. Junior is posing a wonderful distraction. He's just learnt how to play 'fetch' with a small ball of paper. It's delightful. He's not the best at it, but it's certainly novel, compared to the lazy pack of minxes who I have had the pleasure of caring for for the past many years.

Junior is not fetching crumpled up bits of the paperwork on my desk. That wouldn't prove very wise. The paperwork is important. It comprises of the information on my pregnancy to date, compiled in what are called your 'hand held notes', and some consent forms. The consent forms are for a termination.

Late Friday afternoon, our specialist called my mobile. He rang twice, actually. I missed the first call. And rather than just move on to something else I am sure is as equally important in such a busy mans schedule, he tried again an hour later. He wanted to tell me that the test results had come back, and that our baby is Down syndrome.

So begins the journey to the end.

10-9-8...

A few weeks ago we attended an appointment for a CVS test, something required if we wish to ascertain what the chromosome arrangement is like for the baby placed in my uterus by my husband. Due to my retroverted uterus and the positioning of my other somewhat vital organs, like a bladder and a bowel, the test did not go ahead. The doctor, skilled as he is, did not even attempt to stick a needle in me, because he could see no way of reaching the required spot of placenta without driving said needle through my bowel first. Fair cop.

I wrote of my disappointment of not achieving the test that day here.

Cue three weeks later to yesterday morning, and the skilled doctor used all of his aforementioned skills to attempt and achieve a small sample of Chorionic-Villus, which was sent away for testing. We may have results tomorrow, or it may take up to three weeks. If you have ever struggled with patience, then perhaps pregnancy isn't for you. In fact, it would probably be safe to say that maybe child-rearing isn't for you, either. But I digress.

The test itself was extremely uncomfortable. If you are squeamish, or just don't want to know about the experience, stop reading now.

Have you stopped?

Now is the time to stop reading.

And now it is too late.

There are several needles, the first few are for local anesthetic, which for me was injected in three or four spots centering around where the doctor wanted to insert the sampling needle. This was all around my lower abdomen. These needles sting quite a bit, and when he put the last one in, telling me I would feel a scratch, I told him he was fibbing. It just plain hurt.

Then came the sampling needle. I never got to see it, what with my head resting on the bench slightly lower than the rest of my body so that my internal organs fell a bit more out of the way of the needles destination, but boy-o, did I feel it. I felt something go in, and as it got further into my body, I felt a lot more. My word, what a large amount of discomfort and general dull pain it was causing me. Despite this, I did not dare move a muscle. It's amazing how still you can lie with the life of your unborn baby resting in the hands of you and your new best doctor friend.

Because yes, there are significant risks with this procedure. Risks of spontaneous abortion. There are all sorts of statistics all over the web on how risky, but I tell you, I'm sick to death of statistics. Statistics might suggest that flipping one hundred tails in a row is nigh on impossible, but that's not to say it wont happen. Plus the statistics of getting pregnant, staying pregnant, and other associated statistical things have so far not applied to me and LB and our baby making escapades. There are statistics which suggest getting pregnant might take a while, what with it being my first attempt at pregnancy, and the statistics associated with the fertility of a balanced translocation type person such as myself. Yet these statistics did not apply to us. We got pregnant instantly, in a 'just add water' two minute noodle type scenario (well, it lasted longer than two minutes, but you get my drift, yeah?).
Further statistics would have me believing that baby would fall out before twelve weeks, again with this being my first pregnancy and my balanced translocation status.
Except, IT'S STILL IN THERE.
And statistically, there should have been morning sickness, except there wasn't. There was some mild nausea in the evenings, so I just went to bed whenever I felt bad.

Statistics are weird and unreliable.

Except I am still aware of the last statistic looming over us, and the countdown to find out if we can dodge that one has begun.

Some nasty looking little bruises came up last night to remind me of what we got up to earlier in the day, but so far that's the only side-effect of the test. Baby has not (yet) fallen out because of the test, and for that I am so very grateful. For while I know that a termination is our decision if the baby has Down syndrome (GOD STRIKE ME DOWN), having baby die because of such a test would break my heart. Oh, by golly yessy. It would shatter into a million pieces.

What we saw of baby yesterday was again just simply amazing and wonderful. Baby was 'sitting down', a sure sign of its genetic relationship with its parents. It has the requiset number of legs and arms, and it only has one head (huzzah!). It has a nose and I could sort of see a mouth, amongst other things that I will not mention here because my husband DOES NOT WANT TO KNOW THE SEX. I'm not fussed (about knowing or what it is) either way, and what I think I saw was accidental. I was just soaking up the image of our baby in front of us, and that my eyes were drawn in that direction when it flashed its legs open is hardly my fault.

you'll never know

I haven't lost my shit.

OK, well I did lose some of it some time last week, and it was dumped on LB. I chucked a HUGE and not very lady-like tantrum over the conditions of contact for him and Maddie that his ex had dictated to him for the Glastonbury weekend. Something about her not believing him when he said we would not take Maddie to Glastonbury Festival, and deciding that the only way Maddie could see her father that weekend would be if he agreed to three hours supervised contact in her home or at a government contact centre. LB agreed to it, only to have me chuck the hugerist tantrum this side of the Trent, and for him realise that perhaps the conditions of contact were actually so out of order that the only safe thing to do was refuse them.

As the loving partner of someone who is being put through the wringer by their ex, it is hard to not just let them do what they think is right, and to just suffer the consequences with them. Because that is what happens. Anyone who thinks that they can protect their new partner from their bitter ex is kidding themselves. As my neighbour said yesterday, only by the grace of God went he when he split from his ex and then did not spend the following years regretting the day he ever laid eyes on her. It is complete luck of the draw, as it seems even the nicest person can turn nasty when such deep emotions are involved. Not that I am saying LB's ex was ever nice. I have no idea. I never knew her before the bitterness set in. All I have to go off now is the grubby, dirty actions of a manipulative cow, so I am hardly an unbiased judge.

This time around I chose not to stand back and let my husband make what could have been the worst decision to date when it comes to interacting with his ex. After months and months of him being told in person, by text, by phone, and by email that he is not welcome in her house, and that she even finds the interactions of organising contact for Maddie a chore, I felt it would be an extreme error to agree to spending three hours in her house with only a five year old as a witness. Many a time now his ex has told him that she intends to take out a harassment order against him for an 'incident' in September of last year. She calls what she wants an 'injunction', and believes that it will keep LB from her home with immediate effect, which is just evidence to me that it is the talk of a simple-minded bully who has listened to too much gossip while knocking back the pinot grigio.

To have been told all this time and time again, and then to willingly walk into the dragons den would be to invite the kind of repercussions that only the imagination of Jodi Picoult could conjure up.

So he didn't go. And that's real sad. And while we will never know for sure how sad things could have been if he'd gone to his ex's house, I'm pretty sure they would have been sadder, and I cried the tears to prove it.

words and pictures

What I am doing when I am not losing my shit.

Thank you, Queenie.

losing my shit

Some days I wake up feeling more anxious about life than on other days.

At the moment we are in a bit of hot water and I think we are both pretty scared, but doing really well at faking calm. I'm worried about money. I'm worried about our pregnancy. I'm worried about going to court for contact with Maddie. I'm worried about lost friendships.

I am, in general, quite worried about everything. And I am mostly worried that I am not doing enough, or could have done something differently, or could have prevented something from happening if I had just been able to see more clearly what was happening.

On any given day I am not sure exactly how I make it through without losing my shit completely. One can only suppose it's because I have been there done that with some of the things.
I've been broke and on benefits; I find a job eventually.
Friends have fallen away; I have made new ones.
Knowing that I have made it through these things before maybe leaves enough room for the things I am not so sure about.
I'm not so sure about pregnancy, childbirth, and how on earth we are going to manage. All I want to do right now is go out and throw myself into finding a better job. It's always easier for an employed person to find a new position than an unemployed one. Someone finally took the leap with me and now I have some of my employee credibility back. Coming to this country on the kind of visa that I did really hindered my efforts for finding work. No one wanted to take a punt on the Australian who might just go back to Australia.
But I can't just do that. I am pregnant. And after being pregnant comes being a mother. Some days (many days) I wish I had not pissed so much of my life away in dead end jobs. My skills set is limited, and the only option I have for making any sort of decent wage is via wedding photography, the thought of which leaves me feeling cold. Don't get me wrong. I'll do it. In fact, I'm looking into getting my website back online as I write.

Mostly I worry about my decisions. It's possible I have made some bad ones. Or at least some ill-timed ones. My track record is in some ways diabolical, and I am losing faith in my choices, becoming crippled by the outcomes, and my apparent lack of foresight.

the cutest thing

This morning I came downstairs dressed for work to find the black and white cat I mentioned in this post in the kitchen. He wasn't eating the food, and had obviously only just come in. He chirruped hello to me, and then wandered about the lounge room. Just at this moment, the man-kitten, Junior, came downstairs. The black and white cat spotted him, trotted up to give him a playful swat, then made their way out the cat door together; trotting off to do whatever it is that kids do these days for kicks.

Slightly taken aback, I realised that my cat had just been picked up by his friend to go out and play.

guilt

It's not very often I become angered by company policies. I can usually see why a company might commit to doing this, or refuse to do that, and I am often the first to say that I can understand the company's point of view.

With my pregnancy has come a little bit of weight gain. It was instant. I just woke up one day a bit fatter than usual, and it hasn't gone away. Like, duh. And it is only going to get worse.

Due to my cautious nature, I am not inclined to want to buy maternity clothes. Not at this stage. And let's face it, we are not in any financial position to just buy me a whole new wardrobe at each and every stage of this pregnancy. At the moment I am in the 'little bit fat stage'. What I buy now isn't going to fit me after pregnancy, and isn't going to fit me in a few months.

So right now, I would like to simply extend the wear of my current wardrobe with the purchase of what I have come to discover is called a 'bump band', and perhaps a waistband extender of sorts, and yesterday we dropped into Mothercare to pick up said items.

Except they don't sell them.

They don't sell them because "We like you to buy new clothes".

To this I say, quite crassly and with my working class roots hanging out for all the world to see; "Fuck. Off.".

Who the HELL are Mothercare to tell me what is right for MY body, during MY pregnancy? As if pregnancy isn't a minefield enough of political correctness gone mad! Now I am being informed that the clothes I wear during pregnancy are going to potentially harm our unborn child. WHAT?!

Clearly Mothercare's demographic isn't the financially strained, or even the thrift of wallet. Which to me suggests they care only about mothers who are affluent enough to buy from their racks. Lovely. A company with a narrow sense of community values. What a surprise.

So, Mothercare. To you I say I will not be gracing your store with my presence ever again. For while I might be stating here that I don't have a great deal of money to spend on pregnancy and child rearing, I do have some. You just wont be seeing any of it.