Unfortunately it didn’t turn out as we had hoped.

About five minutes into the scan the sonographer stopped his happy explanation of all our baby’s bits and pieces and hovered over the same area for what seemed an eternity. My eyes were wide with terror and the look on my husband’s face showed that he too was concerned. The frowned look on the sonographer’s face did nothing to ease our minds either.
“Where are you having your baby?” I answered and explained that we were going public as the private hospital I had Milla at would not allow me to attempt a VBAC.
“Were there any problems with your first?” No.
Then he hit us with it. “There’s something here that just doesn’t appear to be normal. I want you to see your GP and get an appointment at the hospital to have blood tests and an amniocentisis.”

Being a Saturday we were not so hopeful that our GP would be working but my husband left the room to call him anyway.
I sat and waited and cried like a baby. This was not meant to happen. I was meant to walk out of here with the biggest grin on my face. This was supposed to be a positive experience.

While my husband was out of the room the sonographer told me that it would be best if we found out the gender. He said it may help us in the coming days – as though it helps people to grieve for their lost childen. I told him I wanted to speak to my husband about it because we had already decided that we would wait until his or her birth.

Thankfully our GP was there and told us to get to him straight away. I asked the sonographer to write the gender on a piece of paper so we could choose to see it in our own time and in our own way.

We saw our GP and he called the hospital. He discovered that we would have to wait until Monday to make appointments and another ultrasound couldn’t be done until Tuesday.

It was then 3 days of waiting, wondering, crying, and trying to remain positive…but in the back of our minds we couldn’t help but picture the worst scenario.

Finally Tuesday’s appointment came. We had another ultrasound and the woman was so lovely and positive and best of all…she said that we had the most gorgeous, healthy baby and we could go home and enjoy our pregnancy. Another specialist came in to give a third opinion and was happy with what he saw.
More tears followed as pure and utter relief washed over us. I cried for the pregnant women and their partners who didn’t get the same joyful results as we did.

We still have the baby’s gender written on that piece of paper and stuffed in an envelope – and we wonder if we should peek. The temptation is so strong, but no matter if it’s a boy or a girl, I have a healthy, normal baby growing inside me and that is all that matters to me right now.

The health nurse assured me she would be mouthing and babbling the words she hears most of all. So naturally I made enthusiastic attempts to corrupt her language development. ‘Mama’ and ‘Mummy’ were frequently used words throughout the day. My quest failed and I am now wondering if she thinks because I say it so much, she doesn’t need to!

I write this as just one example of my horrid behaviour over the past few months.

Without realising it, I have become the type of mother who is too focussed on Milla reaching milestones without really enjoying what’s happening in the present and I have written about this before. Milla learns one thing and I am quickly turning towards the next. Now that she can crawl, and not just commando – the real deal, I think about how she should be moving on to standing and cruising.

I have had a stern talking to myself, and my husband who is equally horrified by my ridiculous behaviour, had a few words to say too.
So I’ve decided I am not going to do this any more. I am not going to compare my baby to another, wondering and worrying if my baby is on track. I am not going to worry about the small things that will not matter in a week or a months time (I mean, it’s not like I’m going to have a 5 year old who isn’t able to walk herself into the classroom that very first day).

We are blessed with a healthy baby and if she walks at 22 months like her father did, that’s strange, but ok. If she doesn’t say ‘mama’ for many months to come, that’s ok too.

Everyone warns you how fast your baby grows and already I wonder where my tiny, sleepy, premature newborn went.
Life certainly is too short to wish it away, so I will be trying my hardest from now on to live in the moment and enjoy every little bit.

It was a fine, sunny day in May, and the Arch-man and I found ourselves in a clothing store in South Yarra, sticking out like a sore thumb among the pure new wool pants suits and coiffured shop assistants. We were here out of necessity – to pick up a pair of shoes to go with a bridesmaid dress – but were enjoying getting in trendy peoples’ way with the pram and pretending we were savvy young professionals with cash to burn (I was an engineer, Archie a CEO).

I found the shoes I’d spotted on the store’s website and slipped them on my feet.

“What do you think, boy?” I asked Archie, who was thoughtfully sucking on a teething rusk. Cue megawatt smile.

“Hmm, well if you could stay back at the office an extra 7 minutes one night this week to cover them, that would be great.”

As fate would have it, I’d have to go to Chaddy to get the right size, and it was while we were heading back down Toorak Road to the car that I noticed a familiar smell wafting from the pram. I decided that rather than spending the next 20 minutes inhaling the smell, I’d just open up the back of the station wagon and change him there. Simple. One would think.

But once I’d begun the task, I was dismayed to discover that this was no ordinary number two….it was a Dreaded Back Poo. (For the uninitiated, this is a masterful work a baby performs while sitting down, which travels out of the nappy and up their back, and are proof that butt cracks do serve a practical purpose. A DBP can strike fear into the heart of even the most competent and experienced mother when in public places. I’ve even heard of variations that have reached the neck.)

I took a deep breath and did my best to pull off his sullied singlet and bodysuit cleanly but couldn’t help spreading the joy up one of his arms and onto the change mat.

‘Geez, it’s seriously going to take a whole packet of wipes to clean this one up!’, I thought to myself. But when I reached into the wipes container, my heart quailed within me….

There were none. Zilch. No wipes. No cloths, no facewashers and no towels either. Nothing.

I stared in sudden panic at the moving disaster zone before me, who was now spreading the joy all over himself, all over his change mat, on various objects in the boot, and had somehow grabbed hold of the dirty nappy and was gleefully waving it around above his head. My brain decided this one was too hard, and deserted me. I was unable to decide whether to laugh or cry. And I had poo on me. All during lunch hour on Chapel street in full, clear view of the real savvy young professionals clickitty-clacking along the footpath right past one side of the car, while slow-moving traffic crept by on the other. I wondered if now was an appropriate time for a nervous breakdown.

But there’s something that happens when one becomes a mum; when something seems impossible, you find a way, and at that very moment a small voice inside me gently prompted, “The nappies…. uuuuse the nappieeeees!!”

I scrabbled through the nappy bag and lo and behold! Five glorious nappies! I summoned all my power and skill to clean off everything to an acceptable degree with just the nappies and got us both back in the car, where I spent the next 10 minutes using up an entire bottle of hand sanitiser. Better to look obsessive-compulsive than pooey.

Once I recovered myself I decided, DBP or no DBP, I wasn’t driving to South Yarra to return home shoe-less. So we did end up going the extra mile to Chaddy, where I tried to touch as few things as possible.

There were a number of things I learned from this experience: a) always keep an industrial-sized packet of wipes in the car, and b) always wash your hands thoroughly before eating if you work in retail… especially if you serve a mum.

Husband finally said to me, do you think it might be teeth? She’s been like this before. I said ‘No, she already has a full mouth of teeth.’ I did check though and discovered to my relief and embarrassment a molar coming through right in the back. The dribbling made sense, the lethargy made sense, the slight temperature and copious poos all made sense and I felt a little silly. This mothering thing is meant to get easier, I should know this basic stuff instead I just feel like I am battling through a fog of fatigue to find some common sense, sometimes I win the battle sometimes I don’t.

My son loves his cot, and when he’s tired, it’s all he wants. No car seat, no pram, no people holding him. Cot. Once he’s in it he usually goes through various activities such as stretching, rolling about, snuggling, kicking blankets around, patting his stuffed rabbit and ending up on his knees with his head in the corner. It’s a freedom thing, I think.

This wasn’t always the case, however. I built up impressive core strength walking the floors with a 6kg+ baby every nap and bedtime, so when he eventually decided he preferred his cot, I rejoiced! I could now tuck him in, give him a kiss and quietly close the door, then get on with the things that needed to be done. Heck, I could even put my feet up with a cup of tea and read last month’s Good Taste without fear of being up and down like a jackrabbit to resettle him. It was relative bliss.

Today, I was about to put him down in his cot for his morning nap when he grasped my shirt with his little hand and put his head down on my shoulder (got to love when they do that). Then he closed his eyes and started sucking his dummy furiously, which means he’s ready to do some serious going to sleep. I was a little surprised, but I was enjoying the head on the shoulder thing so much that I sat down. As soon as I did, he snuggled into my body and adopted a cherubic sleeping face.

So I sat. I thought about the laundry that had to be done if I wanted to wear underwear tomorrow. I listened to the cat moping around the laundry because his food bowl was probably empty. I thought I should probably go clean up the breakfast bowl that was broken on the ground next to the table because he’d gotten hold of it from his high chair.

But I sat. After months of wishing he would settle in his cot, here I was, hoping desperately he wouldn’t start wriggling so I could sit there in the half light and just hold him forever.

And I realised that these are the moments that carry us. They make the sleepless nights, endless nappy changes and perpetual messiness fade into utter insignificance. When you dream of having a child, you dream of moments like these. And although they’re so fleeting, when they’re happening, they’re all there is in the world.

Here’s to moments.

I don’t complain about his cooking, I think it is great, however I feel like I have to constantly remind him to chop quietly as he usually bashes the cleaver through meat and bone into the chopping board envisioning cameras around him and giving a running commentary on his knife technique. It is loud and it frequently wakes up Wrigglebot who has just drifted off to sleep which does not make me happy.

So here is my word of warning: if you are considering a gift of knives to the cook in your family make it a prerequisite that they chop quietly.

He still can’t say many words but he obviously understands, he is like a proverbial sponge at the moment but because he doesn’t say all of the words he knows it is easy to forget that he is listening.  I am now on a mission to make sure the words that he is exposed to are not either swear words or inappropriate words for a little Wrigglebot. (Husband take special note of this.) I guess I just want to shelter him for as long as I can and I think it is easier to watch what he is exposed to rather than discipline him when he uses inappropriate language. It just seems that with each stage he goes through there are exciting developments but with everything there are increased challenges and he is only 15 months he still has a lifetime in front of him!

He is also starting to play with blocks, building towers mostly. He gets such a sense of satisfaction just from three blocks on top of each other. But… if they don’t stack and fall then after a while he gets so frustrated that he throws the blocks away in annoyance. Food not on time = not a happy boy either. Oh well, theoretically, if this stage starts now it should be over sooner, that’s my desperate hope anyway.