I love hats. I think I was blessed with a face for them, and I adore wearing hats of all kinds. My mom used to laugh at me when I started getting into my hat thing, mainly because I would wear my hats even when at home, while watching TV. But this isn’t a post about my weird fashion interests, it’s about trying to figure out how to be everything all at once.
I like to think that I’m a pretty good wife. My husband and I are happy and I do whatever I can throughout the day to think of him and do nice things. From running the errands that I know he hates to do himself, to ensuring his favorite snacks are stocked in the pantry, to pre-ordering the latest Collector’s Edition of a From Software game, it’s about doing all the things both big and small to make him smile. It makes me happy to make him happy, and he generally strives to do the same for me.
I think it’s every woman’s nightmare when someone asks if she’s pregnant or when she is due. I used to cry sometimes when people would ask because it was just so awful. I’m not a particularly overweight woman, but I do have rather generous curves. For the most part, I love them because I enjoy having ample boobs and a big round butt. Unfortunately, it means that I don’t have a flat stomach. Even when I was a size 0 (yes, there was a time in my late teens/early twenties when I was that tiny), I had a bit of a poochy belly.
Part of the joy of being pregnant has been that I don’t need to get upset when people comment on my “showing” belly. It’s kinda nice when people ask when I’m due to actually respond with a date instead of tears. But now there’s a new way to be called fat.
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.