morning rising: fail

A few weeks ago I wrote about my intention to get up early, smell the roses, put a pot of coffee on the stove and have some time for me before the kidlets awake each day. For those of you thinking of me as dawn breaks, gently rising a foot here and an arm there in a delicate yoga pose, breathing in for four and out for four, gliding about my house in a serene manner and sipping a hot cup of coffee with a raised pinky while my children stir dreamily, I felt it was my responsibility to set you straight.

I got up early, yep: once.

I’m sorry to say it.

But I failed.

That one day that I did rise at 6am, the pixie was up and attached to me by 6.20. Birdie was hollering for her breakfast – NOW, at 6.40. Since that lovely day when I had a whole glorious 20 minutes to myself I have attempted a few times to rise early. But when Pixie began waking up a million times a night again (after I thought she had settled into a 1-2 times a night kinda thing) I temporarily put a halt on any dreams of this.

I hope you don’t think less of me. I must admit I still do find my time at night a lot more pleasurable because there is much less chance that one of them will wake up and I am likely to have a couple of hours to myself, if I please. In the mornings On that one morning, I did feel a bit stressed not knowing exactly how long I would have, and knowing that it wouldn’t be any more than one hour max.

So a halt to the plans for now, but I will try again… soon… yes…

Are you an early riser or a night owl?

things people say

A lady in the queue at the deli yesterday told me I have a few weeks to go before I give birth… after I told her when prompted that I am 39 weeks pregnant. Then apologised, as in, I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you that. Good luck!

I don’t really mind.

It sometimes strikes me as odd though, the things strangers say to you when you’re carting around an ever expanding belly. Mostly nice, and mostly all at least meaning to be nice and friendly and conversation-like even if the preggy lady and her preggy belly wander off with downcast face and pouty lips.

I have been told by at least four strangers that my baby is definitely a boy.

I have been told by at least two strangers that my baby is definitely a girl.

I have had my belly rubbed by a barista.

I have been told that I am huge.

I have been told that I am tiny.

Sometimes I have received both comments on the same day.

I have been asked by a child in the street, “what is that in your tummy?”

I have been told that my stomach sticks out a lot.

I have been asked if I am sure my due date is in October because I am so impossibly enormous that the baby must just be about to explode out of me at the coffee shop. (Thanks, lady).

I have been told how exhausted and ragged and busy I am going to be when I have two kids instead of one.

I have been told what a joy it is to have another baby.

I have been asked if I am having twins.

I have been told that I look lovely and happy and calm.

I have told that I must be “over it.” (Really? I was feeling ok, until now…)

I have been asked by a man at the fruit shop if I was planning on doing a belly cast because his wife has one and really likes it.

I have been asked if I would be disappointed if we had a boy.

I have been asked if I would be disappointed if we had a girl.

Both times I have answered…

No.

Any type of baby of mine will be just super, thank you.

And that is the truth of the matter.

*another Mardi Sommerfeld photo.