Saturday, May 23

Pregnancy Diaries, Vol. IV

Another week chained to the couch, because the council of Never Ending Sickness came together and agreed that waning nausea and vomiting should be met with frightening colds and sinus pain. To their credit, they allowed me one day where I was in good health between ailments, with the sun shining, and I nearly died of happiness.

But between scorching my face from obsessive steam inhalation, retching with each cough because my gag reflex has been weakened, and sitting on the floor drooling over the ‘do not take while pregnant’ cold medicines, there has been one anti-misery potion.


In all my years, I have never been one to lie awake at 3am laughing. I don’t do humour at ungodly hours.

But every night, I wake up at three on the dot to a mad womb party of kicks, flips, whooshes and wriggles. The enthusiasm of this little human to dance in the early hours, after demanding womb service in the form of toast-with-vegemite, is delightful. And if Ben is groggily awake, I drag his hand to my stomach, where it spends more time than ever before. When we wake for the day at 7.30, I enjoy another half hour workout, to make sure I will never ever leave the bed in a bad mood. My little friend seems to enjoy Beethoven in the car, and I make sure to sing so that extra vibrations reach it’s cocoon.

The only thing I know about this baby is that it moves, and that is enough for mad love. I’m usually so much more picky with love dispensation, but here I taste a strange unconditional version.

All the parents are posting pictures of their children like ‘Joe got student of the week!!’ ‘Betty got distinction in her ballet exam!!’, and I’m like,

'My baby has arms and legs, and moves them.'

Pride and joy. 


  1. This is so great. Keep it up.

  2. Dee, your thoughtfulness and fierce love towards Buggle makes me stop and think and relish our little wiggler who can, to my shame, go unnoticed. Thanks to our gracious Father for each little squirm. Merci cherie, Mez.