I thought a few days away would be a great idea before baby number two arrived. I would have liked a few weeks but the budget wouldn’t stretch that far and my husband had to return to work and get back to reality.

It was an ‘interesting’ trip and certainly not the getaway we were used to pre-baby.

The car was loaded with child paraphenalia and our things squeezed in around it all. I left my competent hubby in charge of packing his own bag which turned out to be a big mistake as he left out the oh-so crucial jocks and socks. I thought this was funny at first, but when day two hit I was not laughing – he honestly thought back to front and inside out made a difference.

Of all the hot weather we have been experiencing we chose the worst two days to be away but we did make the most of it and as soon as the sun broke through the clouds for infrequent periods in the day we were off to the beach, in the hotel pool and at the adventure playground.

Our apartment was not one bit toddler proof and of course Milla wound up with her first shiner after one round with the coffee table. Not just your tiny purple mark either, but a huge, swollen purple eye. We were devastated but were told that it would be the first of many and to get used to it. Typically, I had Milla’s health centre visit today and had some explaining to do, all the while feeling like the worst mum in the world!

I am guessing our next trip away will be just as eventful, if not more so, with a toddler and a baby. And thankfully, I still have time before our next trip to at least ensure I have a self-sufficient husband!

Milla’s development will never cease to amaze me. I am in awe of how fast her development actually is and what she has achieved in her short life of 16 months so far.

Everyone tells you how fast it goes by. One minute you think you’ve got a newborn and sleep deprivation forever and the next minute they are up and walking, and running away from you when it’s time for ‘nigh nighs’ or a nappy change.

Milla woke at 6am this morning which is unusual since I have been lucky enough to get some 8am sleep-ins and when I asked her if it was because she got cold in her bed she replied, “No, hot!” and she pretended to cool herself down by blowing on her tummy like we blow on her cereal.
This was a huge reminder to me to really make the most of my little darling, all the stages she is going through, including the challenging parts, and just soak it all up as much as I possibly can.

My pregnancy with Milla was such a breeze that I was just so excited when I discovered I was pregnant again.
I couldn’t wait to feel those first kicks, to have people touch my belly and marvel at my little miracle (yes, I am one of those who enjoys the stranger hands on my bump), to break out the maternity wear and shop in all different stores to jazz up the sizeable belly. I was so comfortable and blissfully happy in my first pregnancy that I never quite got to the stage where I wanted her ‘OUT!’

Now, with 15 weeks to go, all I want is ‘OUT!’
I feel incredibly guilty that I want it over, particularly since so many women, friends included only dream to be in my position right now…but I am so totally and utterly uncomfortable.
There have been so many emotional ups and downs with the baby’s health and the 40 degree heat that Melbourne is experiencing is just not my cup of tea when I feel like I have a hot water bottle shoved up my singlet day and night!
I am certain that looking after a toddler (who has now decided that running is the best thing ever and “no don’t” are her most frequently used words) is even more exhausting than working a full 45 hour week.
And, friends and family have all commented on how huge I am and that I look like I’m at week 40 already – not what you want to hear when you have a good 15 weeks left of baby putting on weight!

You can then imagine my shock when husband announces that having four children might not be so bad! Hmmm…at this stage, not likely! But as ‘Chelle says, we soon forget the challenging times and I can only imagine that when this beautiful baby of mine does decide to arrive, all the stress and discomfort will surely melt away with the first sight of scrunched up hands and tiny feet, and the first smell, cuddles and kisses of what can only be described as pure newborn goodness.

Having had two ‘good babies’ everybody told me that I was due for a horror child, I just laughed sure that it would never happen to me. After the first few days with this new little one I was scared, very scared, I could feel my sanity slipping away in a fog of exhaustion as sleep eluded him and therefore me. It seemed he wasn’t sleeping for any length of time day or night but that past and now we seem to have an agreement where he sleeps at night but refuses to guarantee any sleep during the day. It seems like that would be a good deal but it just leaves him cranky and irritable and needing to be held which doesn’t really work when there are two other monsters who need my attention.

When I think about it objectively I had difficult times with the others as well but in retrospect it didn’t seem like it lasted very long or was as tiring. I forgot about the hard times when they were no more and I think most of us do and that’s why we think we can handle another baby, because we are forgetful. We forget how difficult it is to get them to burp, to guess what is ailing them, to feed them, to settle them.

Babies are hard and I’m not ready to claim that I have one of ‘those babies’ instead I have a normal baby who is just struggling to adjust to being in the outside world. Perhaps I am deluding myself, frankly I can’t wait for this present to be the past,. only this time there will be no more forgetting.

My world has recently revolved around burping, my life is glamorous I know. I am trying to teach the little one how to burp in order to settle himself and give us some sleep. He is learning quickly although sometimes he needs a lot of encouragement to bring up those little burps followed by a stream of that sweet smelling baby vomit that sits on your shoulder until some passer by kindly informs you that a bird may have pooed on you, nope I’m just a mother and that’s the sign of my now contented baby. A nurse once told me that breast fed babies don’t need to be burped because they aren’t swallowing any air like they may in bottles. I don’t believe it.

On the other side of the spectrum is Wrigglebot who has the gift of being able to burp on demand which he seems to do after every mouthful of drink followed by a very sweet, ’scuse me’. Him, I am trying to discourage from burping though encouraging the saying of ‘excuse me’ after burping. That brings me to Squirm who copies everything her brother does and so she is beginning to try burping as it appears to be a very fun game.

So there you have it; a little one whom I want to burp and finds it difficult, a Wrigglebot who won’t stop burping and a Squirm who is doing her best to be just like her brother in his burping prowess.

Here is the long awaited update on my busy Christmas season. It all started with our customary tree decorating rituals. When we were first married and had no kids we couldn’t be bothered having a tree so Husband pulled out a tripod and jokingly put a star on top. One year it was an innocent joke, the next a funny memory as he brought it out again, the third year I realised that it was a very sad tradition that we had started and yet it has stuck with more decorations being added each year. This year all of the decorations were home made, the kids had a lot of fun decorating it and were extremely proud of their ‘Christmas tree.’

I tried to do things with the kids each morning and so after the tree we progressed to painting wrapping paper,  then we did baking and then each afternoon I would collapse exhausted. I’ve heard people say that pregnancies get easier as you know what to expect and though it was all very normal I can honestly say that I have never been so exhausted in my life.

As the weather got warmer I started contemplating our Christmas plans and began having nightmares about the most awkward place for my waters to break, whether at a family Christmas dinner, Carols by Candlelight or in the middle of a shopping centre, none of it sounded very enticing and so it was with great relief that I went into labour at home on the 15th of December and after two and a half hours little Willem Kipling was born. The labour seemed horrendous at the time but in retrospect it all went really well and was about as good as you can get; no drugs, no complications and quick. He was 6 pound 7, 50 cm long and looked remarkably like his older brother.

A week later we headed off to a family camp which may have been a little ambitious as I was completely exhausted most of the time but the kids loved it and it was nice to spend time with the extended family. So now we are home and trying to get sleep and hoping that we don’t have one of ‘those children’ (more on that later.) So that’s it, Christmas has come and gone, Willem is here and I am just praying that one day I won’t be tired.

With Christmas fast approaching my husband and I have decided on some of the traditions we wish to adopt in our home with our growing family.
We never talked much about our own family traditions for Christmas until now. I was soon to discover through our discussions how different our Christmas celebrations were.
My husband never really got to celebrate. There was no money for gifts, no lavish cooked lunch, no visit to church, no Christmas tree, no family close by to come together. Christmas was like any other day for his family, despite their religious beliefs.

I, on the other hand had a very different experience.
I have the warmest memories of Christmas time when I was growing up. I remember fondly of the church events with my Granny at the farm, dressing the fresh Christmas tree with all our tacky, but beloved home-made decorations, taking it in turns to open the window of the family advent calendar. And of course then there was the special day itself, where we would each have a real, nylon stocking (donated by my obese Grandmother – which greedily could fit more in it being XXXL). We would go to church, share a meal with my 7 aunts and uncles and their partners, my 25 cousins, and the six of us in my immediate family. We would scoff Granny’s delicious pudding whilst sharing our gifts. We would swim at the dam, go yabbying and have our traditional afternoon snooze.

It wasn’t until I compared our typical Christmas day that I realised how incredibly fortunate I was, but also how over-indulged we were.

I visited my sister a few days later and asked her what ‘traditions’ she had started with her husband and two girls. Their Christmas was even more indulgent. The girls had their own advent calendar to open each day, they would spend at least $1000 on gifts per child, they would have a huge banquet for lunch and the fresh Christmas tree was decorated like it was stolen from the Myer window.

So, in our household we have decided on a beautiful balance of traditions. The plastic Christmas tree with the tacky lights and home-made decorations would be just right for us, our church visit was essential, one advent calendar for the whole family would be more than enough, small gifts that would show our love and appreciation for each other was the key, and my home-made stockings would be hung up with pride. We also decided to donate money to a charity to help families less fortunate than us. I will admit that the lunch would continue to be lavish, and a snooze inevitable.

It just goes to show how quickly the ’silly season’ can get out of hand and we can lose sight of what this day is really all about.

I have discovered how totally controversial finding out the gender of your unborn child is.
I always thought it was something you did or didn’t do without a whole heap of thought. But, now that the envelope has sat on our kitchen bench we have been in turmoil over all the reasons why we should or should not open it to reveal our baby’s sex.
Of course, it doesn’t matter to us. A brother or sister for Milla or another daughter or a son for us -either way, we would be ecstatic. Our only wish with particular emphasis more so now after what we’ve been through, is for happy, healthy children.

My husband and I had a conversation that went around and around and there seemed to be equal reasons for finding out and not finding out. I decided after an hour of circular conversation that it was time for action. I told hubby to come to bed with either ‘yes’ (to open) or ‘no’ (to burn) written on a piece of paper.
We jumped into bed and with sheepish smiles we counted up to 3 and opened simultaneously. Mine said ‘no’, his said ‘yes’ and we hadn’t even decided on a solution to a stalemate. We laughed and decided that since it was 11pm we wouldn’t be able to sleep from excitement if we did open it anyway.

When he returned home from work the next day the circular discussion continued. Again, it was time for action because the longer we left it, the more tempting that envelope became.
We finally came to the conclusion that we loved the surprise element when Milla came into the world and would like to experience that again. We made a cuppa while Milla happily played and when we returned with our drinks, there was Milla holding the torn envelope in her pudgy hand and the piece of paper in the other. It was as clear as day what was written there. She obviously couldn’t wait until his or her birthday and had ultimately made the decision for us.
And we are so thrilled.

The last four days have probably been the most stressful and emotional of all the days in my 30 years so far.
My husband and I dropped Milla off at Granna and Poppy’s and off we went to have our 18-20 week ultrasound and a relaxing celebratory lunch.

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.

I once saw comedian Craig Ferguson perform a sketch where he impersonates Tom Cruise. In part of the sketch he focused on the time a few years back when the ol’ Tom publically criticised Brook Shields’ use of anti-depressants for post-natal depression, since Scientologists don’t believe in drugs. They believe in aliens.

After some freakishly good impersonations of Tom’s maniacal laughter, the sketch culminated in Ferguson putting a finger to his lips and exclaiming in a whisper-shout, “Tom! You’re a MAN! Shhhhhhhh! SHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

This excellent advice came to mind when I visited a neurologist. I was amazed by this young doctor’s ability to give an efficient, professional diagnosis of a variation of migraine, while talking more or less continuously. I was even more amazed at how many times he was able to offend a person during the course of a single consultation, while talking continuously and diagnosing migraines. Incredible multi-tasking.

“So, how old are you?” he asked, after filling me in on the details of his wife’s higher education, while checking my reflexes.

“Twenty-five”, I answered, stifling a giggle. It just feels so funny.

“Really?! That’s young to have a baby!” he burst out with, while hammering lightly at my knees. “Most people are in their thirties nowadays when they start having kids.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to this exactly, but offered that 50 years ago it was the norm, so perhaps the trend will change again eventually. He shrugged and shined a torch in my eyes.

As our fairly one-sided conversation continued, he got on a roll.

On hearing I was married at 21: “What?!…WHY??”

On hearing I had complications after the birth: “Meh, you get over that stuff.”

On me having a caesar delivery for breech: “Ohhhhh, you did it the EASY way.”

It was at this point, I snapped.

“Ok buster, all comparisons to natural childbirth aside, I’d like to see you have abdominal surgery, look after a newborn baby during your six weeks recovery, then come back and tell me it was EASY.”

That’s what I would like to have said. In reality, I just managed to rouse myself from an outraged stupor to mutter something about there not really being an easy way to produce a baby, before he cut in:

“You should try natural childbirth – they ALL complain about that.”

Before I could convince myself that this doctor has a really, REALLY dry sense of humour – to prevent myself snatching that hammer from his hand and using it heck knows where – he was already busy telling me all about how much it was going to cost to have his wife’s Yamaha shipped over from Singapore.

I sighed inwardly, and considered the advice of Craig Ferguson to such hilarious persons:

“ShhhhHHHHHHHHH!!!!”