Hoooooly hell!

Since I found out I was carrying Cuinn, I've been on the hunt for a particular book. It's one of those things that has deep significance to me, and I really, really want Cuinn to have a copy (plus Al and I are big on fusty old books). Well, it was a series of books, and any of them would do, to keep a particular cherished connection with my past alive for my son, who, of course, won't get it at all, but I will and that's the thing.

I've been hunting for four months and a copy has just popped up on Trademe of all places, although I nearly had a heart-attack at the price. $40.00! For a 28-page book published in 1953! Wouch! The again, considering there were a series of them and this is the first one that I've found to come available, I probably shouldn't whinge. But still. $40.00! The kid is not cheap.

*Sigh* I'm adding it to my watch list. It doesn't have a buy now, so I don't want to alert anyone to said book being desirable by placing a bid myself just yet. As soon as you do that, you're screwed.

A mixed bag from the OB

Firstly, to the woman with the gorgeous baby girl I saw in the waiting room yesterday who was obviously in there for her six week check up post birth, who was also approximately as wide as one of my thighs (the woman not the baby girl) and actually looked fabulous wearing black tights - I hate you.

Now, some very, very good news. Well, vaguely. The placenta is still very low, yes, BUT is actually now clear of the cervix meaning a natural birth is on the cards.

The kicker that always accompanies good news? Cuinn, bless his hefty little self, is weighing in at a porky 335 grams as at yesterday. I sincerely hope that that is height as opposed to width.

What else?

Al and I are both negative blood types and so the Rhesus factor isn't an issue for us. Contrary to my thinking that two negatives make a positive, apparently I did sleep through most of my biology classes in school, and Cuinn will have a negative blood type. Or, if he doesn't, someone shouldn't have been drinking before coming into the lab and mixing us up some babies.

I need to stop being a wimp and book into antenatal classes.

Oooo! Yes! A little piece of ... trivia? ... and something I am very glad I didn't know until now ... 40% of couples who get to IVF will never have a baby *gulp*. We are very, very lucky indeed to have the wiggly little heavy-weighter. Very. Very, very.

Very.

Crap on toast

Writing project word limit - 2000 words

Total self-imposed sections - 5

Self-imposed word limit for a SINGLE 'less important' section solely intended to connect the one before it to the one after it without leaving a ruddy great hole in the tale - 400 words

Actual words in 'less important' section solely intended to connect the one before it to the one after it without leaving a ruddy great hole in the tale- 905 words.

The two things this tells me:

1. I talk too much (and I'm pretty sure said 2000 word writing project could actually be turned into a book such is the muchness of the ability to talk).

2. Perhaps said 'less important' section solely intended to connect the one before it to the one after it without leaving a ruddy great hole in the tale isn't as 'less important' as I thought.

And back to it, for about two minutes before the husband gets back from dutifully hunting and gathering hot chips so I can slather them in sauce and stuff my face (and then probably eat a carrot and an apple afterwards because I'll feel dreadful for not providing Cuinn with a perfectly balanced evening meal. In theory chips are vaguely potato and therefore constitute one of your five plus, so I just need to fill in some gaps).

Ooooh! and I have an OB appointment tomorrow wherein I get to have another scan. Weeee! I love scans. Never mind the kiddly-irradiation or whatever it is. He's going to be weird anyway. He's ours. May as well be weird and frequently peeked out.

Heavens! Who knew there'd be an uproar? In which we release the name.

What if we change our minds? Wouldn't you prefer to not know for a bit than get used to a name and then have to get used to another? (Although having said that, the chances are slim that we'll change it simply because we're far too lazy to go trawling for names again. We didn't enjoy the trawling)

By reading on you have hereby forfeited your rights to complain if we do happen to change our minds. Or the name order. Or anything.

OK. Deep breath.

Introducing ...

Cuinn Lachlan.

Cuinn (the Gaelic form of Quinn, pronounced the same) means wisdom, so at least if he gets none from us, which is highly likely genetics being what they are, he'll have some somewhere, even if it's just in the meaning of his name.

Lachlan means warrior from the land of the lochs. Considering what this little guy has been through to be with us, it's perfect ... even if it's more warrior from the petri dish.

There you go.

Just like that, Hellboy has a name

No, I'm not going to tell you yet. Sorry, this is partial sharing. There is nothing I hate more (well, actually, I have quite a difficult personality and there's plenty that I hate more, but for the purposes of this post, we'll pretend that this is my ultimate peeve) than people naming their unborn children, making a deal about it and then changing their minds when the kid pops out and it turns out that he or she doesn't look so much like a Harold or a Gertrude as they thought he or she would after all. This way, although you're in the dark, you'll have no idea if we change our minds. We'll pretend it's what we were going to do all along. Ha HA! Tricky.

Anywho, the defining moment came a little like this after the husband and I had spent a torturous four and a half minutes looking at baby boy names on the internet.

Me "What about *mumble*?"

The husband, scowls at me quite ferociously and says accusingly "I've liked that for ages. You said you hated it!"

Me, blankly (if all else fails, play dumb. In my current state of Hellboy related brainlessness, it's not exactly hard anyway) "Oh. Really? Did I?"

The husband, stalks off.

Me, hollaring into the lounge "Well, I do hate it. Or, I don't really like it, but I think it may really suit Hellboy."

The husband, still glowering slightly, and looking incredibly suspicious with it, comes back.

Me "We can't spell it like that though" ('tis Gaelic)

The husband "Why not?"

Me, patiently "Because he is going to spend his entire life spelling his name and no one is going to know how to pronounce it."

The husband, sighs loudly and says very patiently "I spend my entire life spelling my name. Only girls get pissed off about that sort of thing. Boys don't care. In fact, he's going to sit there in class and someone is going to try and call the roll, get to his name and say 'Ahhhheeeeerrrm *mumble ... and get it completely wrong*?' ... and he's going to sit there, let them make an arse of themselves and then say 'It's *mumble*' and then sit back with his arms folded. I like that spelling. Besides, it's our prerogative as his parents to ruin his life."

Me "I'll see. It's going to be a bugger coming up with a second name."

The husband, shrugs and goes back to his coffee in the lounge. Name done.

And, as it turns out, the second name is done too. Just like that. Ish. There's potential for the two names to be reversed, but I'm pretty sure it's done. We'll just sit on it for a while though to make sure it doesn't sound like fingernails down a chalk board in a month or two.

(Ok, ok, if you reeeally must know and can't stand the suspense, and you're my mother and extremely worried that we're going to settle on an Irish name ... We're decided we really like Hellboy, and we're pretty sure they'll let us register it. We've also taken an option out on Batman. Feel better? ... No? Can't imagine why ...)

And on that note, I'm going to ground more or less for a week or so because I have an infertility-related writing project and an imminent deadline.

I forgot about the placenta bit, didn't I?

The placenta is still 100% behaving badly. Fortunately we already have the OB under our belts, so we can monitor it on a monthly basis for the next couple of months, and then we'll have to have another big scan, probably around the 30-32 week mark to presumably make the final decision on how Hellboy will be born.

But, at the moment, it's a nada on the natural birth front and a continue to be very blardy careful in general. The only thing I'm a bit gutted about is my month off at Christmas is evaporating before my eyes. Tragic!

So it went a little like this ...

Technician: "The baby ... is .... standing on its head?"

Me: Heehehehehehehehehehe!!!


And cue about 5 minutes of me trying to stop laughing (and a firstly indulgent, but quickly irritated look from the technician). Seriously. Only our kid. Standing on its head. Excellent. Even better, standing on its head doing the splits. Heaven knows there he gets the acrobatics thing from, but it sure as hell isn't me.

This was followed by about 45 minutes of cursing, very annoyed noises and mutterings from the technician as she tried to dig Hellboy out of my pelvis. We also have completely crap pictures of everything because he refused to move out of my pelvis (I'm guessing there's an xbox in there?), wiggled if he was forced to move therefore proving his point that we should have left him where he was damn well happy, thank you very much, and in the end we got him to move by tipping me on my head which as you can imagine was very comfortable indeed, and yet still didn't help because yes, he did pop back up, but all we got then was wiggling.

And that, sadly, is that. I tried to find an interesting shot to post, but even I can't tell what they are, and that's with the labels on (I'm going to be one of those parents that takes the wrong kid home from kindy, I can see it now). They're all blurring shots taken, out of necessity, while Hellboy was on the move, because apparently it's funny to lie on your back so the technician can't get spinal measurements, and then flip onto your head when she eventually gives up and decides to take head measurements, and then stick your hands in front of your face while she's trying to make sure your lip/nose view is normal, and so on and so forth for a very long time. While mummy is tipped unnaturally backwards in screaming pain. (As I said, the only clear shot we got was of his bits, and I just feel a little uncomfortable posting it)

So, I paid the little shite back by having a nice hot Thai curry, and we're just going to pretend that I'm enjoying the indigestion.


...


Oh, for goodness sake, the husband is rather proud and wants to show the world his boy's bits. Aye aye aye. Parents get sued for this sort of thing.




Ooooo! I just found a face shot (thank heavens for the 'Profile' tag huh?)