I was going to go all the way and swear in the title of this post, but I figured Google would hate me forever and ever and I would actually like people to feel comfy sharing stuff if they want without issues of profanity. Anyway, swearing isn’t the point of this blog post, but sex is.
Obviously, in order to get into my current state of knocked-upedness (totally a word), I had sex with my awesome husband who I adore. Plenty of it, you know, just to be sure. I’m not sure whether it was going off the pill that boosted my sex drive to record level heights, or the fact that sex seemed purposeful, but we were rather randy and had a whole lot of fun with “making a baby”.
Now, the baby is made and Princess Harley is growing by the second inside me. Luckily, thanks to the increased blood flow below the waist and a general lack of nausea, my libido is still as healthy as ever. Being ever the researcher, I read up on sex during pregnancy just to make sure everything was still all good to go. Apparently, it’s not only okay to do it, but it’s actually good for me and the baby. It helps relieve stress, the rocking motion is nice for the growing munchkin, and the chemicals released upon climax into my blood stream also make her feel good, helping the baby to sleep instead of continually doing back flips in there.
I love South Africa. I love my South African husband, I love my home (although I definitely want to get a bigger house ASAP), I love my cats and I love my day to day life here. It was a choice we made to settle in Joburg, and despite the ridiculous Rand/Dollar exchange rate, I’m still feeling like it was a good decision to make.
Of course, it isn’t always easy. I’m not just talking about cultural differences or contexts that I’m still discovering after seven years here. Those are mostly entertaining or interesting for me, and a whole load of fun. No, I’m talking about how this country continues to make me feel like a stranger in a strange land.
Dean and I got married in Community of Property. I know, I know, that was probably some fatal mistake and all of you will now think I’m an idiot. But, from when we started dating, we always just took care of each other. If he had money, he’d stock my fridge and when I had cash I’d restock his. We’d take turns buying each other drinks or dinners and it was generally just a balanced exchange without really needing to talk about it. When I decided to move to South Africa to be with him, he wanted for everything to be shared, giving me full powers on his bank account and we always treated our money as just that – OUR money.
Today, Dean and I went for the scan to check that everything is still proceeding normally, and hopefully to peer between the zergling’s legs and find out if the little munchkin is a boy or a girl. I keep giggling about that Monty Python sketch where the mom asks if it’s a boy or a girl only to be told by the doc that it’s a bit early to be imposing roles on it (you can watch here and skip to about the 3 minute mark for the line).
I will start all my deep and meaningful thoughts about how to raise this child and what gender means and all those things at a later date. Today, I am simply far too happy. I got to see my little girl today.
That’s right, I’m having a baby girl and her name will be Harley. She is still incredibly shy for the camera, preferring to face backwards instead of showing us her face, but I don’t even mind. I got to see her hands in front of her face, and her back and that little bum as she turned and moved in there. I got to be reassured that she it looking totally healthy and normal, smack bang in the middle of where her weight and growth should be.
Tomorrow, I head back to the doctor for an important scan. The last one told us that the baby is looking healthy and isn’t showing any signs of developmental issues or birth defects. This time, we’re going to find out if I’m growing a little Mason or a little Harley.
It’s an odd situation to be in, hoping that the munchkin spreads its legs and shows us what’s there (some babies are very shy on the scans). After that point, I won’t have to do the him/her thing anymore but can embrace which ever name and sex the kid is going to have. It’s yet another step towards making it real – to actually be able to refer to him or her by name, to start thinking of the alien I’m growing as an actual being.
I like to think that I’m generally pretty true to myself. It’s taken me a long time to get to a place in my life where I can be open and confident about all facets of my personality, where I don’t have to hide who I am. I proudly declare my interests, my irritations and those causes for which I’m willing to stand. I suppose that’s one of my proudest achievements as an adult – I feel like I know myself and I am not afraid to be my own person.
That is, until this new phase of my life started. I don’t like to pigeon hole myself as a general rule, but there are certain identities that I accept and have embraced. Things like geek, gamer, woman, journalist, blogger, food pornographer. Whatever the case may be, I’m happy with the things I do and how I’ve chosen to define myself.