G'night John-Boy. G'night Franny-Beth.

 

So about an hour after we give our brand new daughter what we think is the timeless, classic, non-top-ten name of Francesca Elizabeth, my girlfriend Clare arrives at the hospital, armed with her droll English wit and announces Francesca's new nickname . . . hello Franny-Beth! Hyphenated though, just to make it a little bit fancy. Although even a fancy hyphen can't help it from sounding like the name of the Alabama State High homecoming queen.

Anyway, because I'd been lucky enough to have an unmedicated birth, I had my wits about me and was able to tell my pommy mate to stick the name Franny-Beth in her Mint Julep (or whatever they drink in the fine state of Alabama) and suck it up through a straw.

The thing is, when you choose a name for your newest pride and joy, you ignore any potential nicknames at your peril.

When the midwife asks you what you plan to call your child, you'd better be damn sure that you're comfortable with the fact that Rebecca might get called Beck, Richard will get Dick and Potato will be shortened to Spud.

What?

And let's not forget the Australian propensity to lengthen short names with a 'ee' or an 'oh' on the end. John becomes Johnny or Johnno, Anne becomes Annie, Russell is Rusty or, in the case of Jack's little mate Ryan, well, he'll always be Rynee-Piney-Pineapple-Head to us.

So it is with Francesca. We are happy with Frankie, Cesca (pronounced Chess-ka), Chessie, Honeypie, Cutiepie, Lil Cesca-Luna and, lately as she stacks on the thigh rolls, Butterball. However, whilst we're not keen on Fran or Franny (no offence to any Frans or Frannys out there), we accept that some people might call her those names and are prepared to correct them. Politely.

You also need to be prepared to tell anyone who asks why you chose the name and what it means. Because, like the questions "When are you due?" and "Do you know the sex?", you will be asked to explain the name you chose. If my Grandma, Father Paul from St Rose or the ladies who work in the presbytery ask, Francesca was named after St Francis of Assisi. To everyone else, we just liked the name. Or rather, I liked the name and John agreed (No seriously, I really did want to take his suggestions on board but I just couldn't imagine calling out "Marjorie!" or "Petula!" in the playground)*. I especially liked the Italian-ness of it.

Because to tell you the truth, ever since I watched A Room With A View at 17 (remember when Helena Bonham-Carter wore matching shoes and had a hairstyle instead of a birds nest on her head?) and then traveled to Florence myself at 19, I have been a bit of an Italophile. Apart from the man who flashed me in Rome and the other man who rubbed his crotch against me on a bus in Florence, I love Italy and everything in it.

I also love Italian names and when some friends of ours recently named their daughter Lucia, it reminded me how much I loved that name and also the name Francesca. So we looked it up and we liked the meaning "free woman" because even though she is growing up in this incredible millennium and this incredible country and can vote and show off her ankles and even visit the Long Room at the MCG**, we also hope that she will be free-spirited, free-thinking and free-speaking.

We also hope she remains a free woman as in 'stays out of jail'. Just saying.

Then, while I was pregnant, I heard a woman call to her daughter in the foyer of a cinema "Chess-ka!" and that sealed it. It sounded sweet and I did not foresee any future playground-shouting hesitation.

However saying the name is one thing; writing it is quite another. We have saddled the poor little pet with a rather long name and a lifetime of trying to fit Francesca Elizabeth Barraclough into the little boxes on Medicare forms and name tags at networking functions. I'll teach her to write small.

Of course, once we'd chosen the name it was essential to keep it to ourselves for as long as possible in order to avoid what I like to call the Raised Eyebrow Effect. When we discovered we were having a girl, we bandied around a few names, as you do, one of which was Chloe. I've always loved the name and still do. But when we mentioned it as a possibility at a family gathering, an older relative crinkled her nose and gave a little shake of the head, and two of the younger women, both in their twenties, gave each other a 'look'.

"What? What's wrong with Chloe?!" I asked, looking from one to the other in bewilderment.

They laughed nervously and said "Oh nothing," (meaning 'something') "It's just that we know a girl called Chloe and she's a bit of a skank."

Great. Just great.

In fact, no matter what name you mention, someone will always know a person with that name who is a skank/tosser/loser/stole-my-lunch-in-year-six/stank-like-fish/etc. For the record we decided against Chloe as a name, NOT because of a skanky acquaintance of our relatives, but because it has become very popular recently and we wanted something a bit different. Having said that, I have come across two more recently named Francescas so she could be 'Francesca B' in school after all, sandwiched between Francesca A and Francesca C.

In fact, like Mary of the 50s, Lisa of the 60s, Jennifer of the 70s and Jessica of the 80s, Francesca could be the nom de jour for the Teens (or whatever we're calling the next decade).

Indeed, my own name had a top ten ranking through the 60s and 70s, thanks to Paul McCartney and the Beatles. I was named by my 19 year old father whose frame of reference covered saints names and song titles. If I'd had a more reverent father I might have been Mary-Margaret or Bernadette. On the other hand, Tom Jones released Delilah in 1968 too. My my my!

Be careful, however, about throwing out any red herrings. We thought it would be hilarious to text everyone after the birth and tell them that, after careful consideration, we'd named the baby Francesca Elizabeth***, favouring it narrowly over Apple Daphne. There were some who thought Apple Daphne was a beautiful name and what a shame we didn't go with it. Hmmm . . . 

So to all you pregnant ladies out there, take heed! Firstly, choose your baby's name wisely. Secondly, do yourself a favour and keep the name to yourself until after the birth. Be cowardly clever like us and spring it on your loved ones via text message. Nobody EVER knows a skank/tosser/loser by that name once the baby's been born. Trust me.

* John dipped into the baby name book for daily inspiration and these were among some of his suggestions. I suspect he was joking but you never know with a man who still reveres Gordon Lightfoot. (If you're reading darling, LOVE YOU!)

** The Long Room is the famous dining room in the Members Pavillion at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, oozing with leathery tradition and a clubby atmosphere. Ladies were allowed to cross its hallowed threshold in 1984 (no, not 1884, 1984, if you can believe it!) and whilst Francesca will be free to enter, she will not be free to wear 'tank tops, non-tailored pants or yachting weatherproofs'. (Which is a shame because that's what I like to wear to the cricket, don't you? Especially with my midriff exposed. Another no-no in the Long Room I'm afraid).

*** We gave Francesca the middle name of Elizabeth after my beautiful friend whose wise words made Francesca a reality instead of just an unattainable dream.

Image courtesy of mummy-mayhem.blogspot.com

I'm Pregnant. Really?

Lately, in that strange and fuzzy limbo between sleeping and waking, I've been forgetting that I'm pregnant.

It's just for a split second, but for that tiny sliver of time, I don't believe it's real. This is followed by another micro-second of wondering if I made the whole thing up and have created a phantom pregnancy, my tummy growing with a pretend baby because I REALLY, REALLY wanted to be pregnant.

It is the strangest sensation. I don't remember having it when I was pregnant with Jack.

As reality seeps in, along with the daylight peeking through the blinds, I know it's not true. I am pregnant. With a real live baby. It's not just 43 boxes of Uncle Toby's cereal swilling around in there. There have been ultrasounds and kicks and a heartbeat loud and clear on my obstetrician's doppler speaker. Cereal does not kick you in the bladder.

As if I can have any doubt, I only have to try moving. Each morning I mentally prepare to hoist myself into an upright position and get my feet onto the floor. Like an Olympic weightlifter, I clench my face into a mask of concentration before attempting a personal best, getting the extra 100 grams that have piled on overnight, off the bed.

My legs, creaking slowly in their hip sockets, feel like the rusty corkscrews of a reformed alcoholic, and just as useless, as I take the first few small robotic steps of the day.

My abdomen is tightly strung and I hold my hands under it's weight as I make my way to the kitchen to get Jack's breakfast. The baby does a lazy roll and a foot or elbow causes an extra bump to appear on the left of my stomach. I know the baby is head down and I imagine it settling into the cradle of my pelvis for the day as I move slowly through my day. Kerthunk.

Before long, my joints loosen and my body settles in to itself. I feel less like a 90 year old arthritis patient and more like a weightier, less fit version of myself. With reflux. And wind.

As the day wears on, I waddle from room to room. I've tried not waddling but it's too much of an effort. Easier to make like a duck.

I nest, I nap, I do a little work. I wander in to the baby's room and find it difficult to believe that I will be carrying a newborn to bed in that room in two weeks, maybe less.

And every day, despite the stiffness and the reflux and the mental trickery and all the other symptoms that growing a human being inflicts upon its mother, there is unbelievable gratitude, utter wonderment and a kind of serenity that allows me to transcend the physical and float towards my child's birth day.

For now, I can ignore the doubts, the fears, the outside world full of petty grievance and trivial domesticity, and, just for a little while, let myself be the cat who got the cream.

Image courtesy of willowtreegifts.net

So Bump, how do you feel about having 2 dads?

In the last month I:

• Made a filing cabinet from IKEA (with a screwdriver and everything)
  
  
• Swore at said IKEA filing cabinet
  
  
• Put WD-40 on the bathroom door hinges to stop them from squeaking
  
  
• Took the garbage out and had a yarn to the garbo
  
  
• Watched Top Gear
  
  
• Drank beer
  
  

If I wasn't 8 months pregnant, wearing a skirt and worried about getting my roots done before the baby comes, I would say I'm . . . well . . . a man.

I may even be growing a beard.

It's not all oestrogen and Kleenex moments with this pregnancy business people!

The Nursery

In six terrifyingly short weeks, we have a new tenant arriving. A newborn child who will expect somewhere decent to doss down, perform ablutions, maybe invite a few friends over to suck on dummies and generally just, y'know, chill out.

Instead we have a room filled with old mattresses, empty boxes, a drawer full of odd socks, some handy coils of rope and a bottle of 20 year old single malt. This sounds like the room of a 15 year old boy (except instead of the single malt it would be a half empty bottle of gatorade with mouldy bits floating on top).

If I were this baby, I would just stay where I am till these people who call themselves parents get their act together. Sure there isn't much leg room, but there's cereal on tap and the woman sure knows how to get a rocking good waddle going on!

In These Shoes?

I was up bright and early to attend an Inspiring Women networking breakfast this morning which was due to start at 7am.

That meant heaving 32 week pregnant body out of bed, showering and attempting to pour said body into a dress that would (a) look halfway professional, (b) not show too much flesh between gaping buttons, (c) not allow for an unseemly escape of the ultimate muffin top and (d) allow me to make an emergency wee stop with a maximum of two manoeuvres.

I chose a black knee-length number in fabric that I like to describe as poly-stretchy-manmade-ester (not a natural fibre in sight) but it seemed to fulfil all requirements. The problem is that it's black and dull and not exactly the cheeriest garment with which to greet a beautiful sunrise over Long Reef headland. So I accessorised with red. Red pendant, red resin ring and a pair of lovely (if pregnancy-inappropriate) red velvet wedge heels.

Exhibit A:

John asked me if I planned to walk to the venue, which would be a fair question to ask under normal non-pregnancy, non-heel-wearing circumstances, considering it is only 2 blocks away.

And I said "In these shoes? I don't think so" which reminded me of this completely fabulous and awesomely cool song by Kirsty MacColl which you absolutely MUST listen to. Right now. Go on . . .

I guarantee it will make you want to tap your foot, sway your shoulders, and maybe even click your fingers in a groovy fashion like Elvis in Blue Hawaii, as you imagine sitting at that bar in Guadalajara, sipping something pink and fizzy, waiting for the man with the faraway look in his eye . . . .

Happy Friday everyone. Have something pink and fizzy for me will you? Ta.

The Other 9 1/2 Weeks

On Monday, someone asked me how long I had to go till my due date and I answered, without really thinking about it, "nine and a half weeks". We both sort of tittered nervously and moved on to something like "Isn't this weather lovely?"

9 1/2 Weeks is one of those films that people either loved or hated, and even now, people aren't sure whether to admit they liked it or even saw it.

I was 17 when I saw it and remember squirming with embarrassment in the cinema next to my two girl cousins. It was just so sexual and in-your-face and stirred up all sorts of very strange feelings that seemed so at odds with our daily HSC study sessions and chaste kissing sessions at the local blue light discos. The post-movie critique between us went so far as to admit that Mickey Rourke was cute and Kim Bassinger wore nice hats and we left it at that. However, there are scenes from that film which have remained etched in my memory, even though I've never seen the movie since.

So with nine and a half weeks to go till I give birth, I've been thinking about all the ways in which MY nine and a half weeks is different to Mickey and Kim's.

1. At 30 weeks pregnant, I am beginning to resemble more Mickey Rourke than Kim Bassinger. And not handsome, suave Mickey from '9 1/2 Weeks', oh no . . . I am morphing into Mickey from 'The Wrestler', complete with swollen ankles, dark roots and a whole lotta ex-boxer attitude. But if my face starts puffing up like his, for God's sake someone prick me with a pin!

2. The theme song, it goes without saying, will change to 'You Can Leave Your Fat On' and the accompanying dance (if you can call it that) will be some raunch-less hip swivelling on the fit ball and a few pelvic floor lifts.

3. Forget about dripping honey all over my body and rubbing it sensuously along my burgeoning thighs. Just give it to me straight - into the mouth, preferably on toast, with butter. And do you really think one piece is enough? Keep 'em coming buddy!

4. Forget, too, about the gift of white lacy lingerie and suspender belt. Make mine a few dozen pairs of giant cotton knickers with double gussets and a maternity bra made out of two teepees.

5. Don't bother brushing my hair and treating me like a doll. Get the razor out and shave my legs will you? For I cannot reach them and hair leggings are simply not 'in' this spring.

6. And finally, about all that sex business. In the words of Darryl Kerrigan, tell him he's dreamin'!

Telling it like it is . . .

So this morning Jack jumps into bed with us at the unusually late hour of 6.15am and proceeds to wiggle his way down to the bump to have a word with the baby.

Sometimes this involves singing, sometimes just a hello and a kiss, sometimes a more detailed discussion about the minutiae of our daily life. Not only will this baby have some idea of how life works in the Barraclough household and what it can expect upon exit, it will also have an appreciation for the entire back catalogue of Michael Jackson.

This morning, however, Jack only had one piece of vital news to impart to the baby, which wriggled around in my belly when it heard Jack's voice, eager to soak up today's pearl of wisdom.

In a very serious voice, he said "Did you know you will be coming out of mummy's big vagina? When it gets even bigger, that's when you come out."

Good to know.

Serially serious about cereal . . .

Despite only being a few posts in, you will have already noticed several references to cereal.

My name is Michelle and I am addicted to cereal.

("Hello Michelle")

Remember the row of cereal boxes on the kitchen shelf in Jerry Seinfeld's apartment? I'd rather browse through that row of cereal boxes than be let loose in Peep-Toe Shoes with a platinum Amex provided by a sugar daddy. And Jerry's boxes were lined up alphabetically in true control-freak fashion. What more could a pregnant cereal aficionado with a fierce nesting instinct ask for?!

In my opinion, Goldilocks was far too discerning. I'd have scoffed all three bowls of porridge, hot, cold or just right.

Cold. Porridge.

It's THAT bad.

I'm putting it down to pregnancy cravings, but in reality I've always loved cereal. The pregnancy is possibly just an excuse to indulge in more than one bowl per day. And when I say 'more than one bowl per day' I mean 'less than five'. As in four.

Fortunately I like the healthier varieties. Anything with a bit of crunch and dried fruit and you've got me. Although I'm partial to a spoonful of Jack's Cheerios right before I serve them to him.

I am eating cereal for dessert after every meal. There's breakfast dessert, lunch dessert and dinner dessert. Including the actual breakfast main course of cereal, there's your four bowls.

I'm telling myself that drinking nearly a litre of skim milk a day with the cereal can't be that bad. Can it?

I'm also telling myself it's better than cravings for chocolate or chardonnay or anchovy smoothies or beetroot & peanut butter sandwiches.

But still . . . it does make me wonder what effect it will have on the bump. I imagine my amniotic fluid is a milkier consistency than most ("just like a milkshake only crunchy"), and that s/he is swimming around collecting Cheerio rings on his/her fingers. Will there be a snap, crackle and pop when my waters break?

What cravings did you have when you were pregnant? Were they real cravings or just an excuse to indulge? Anonymous comments are allowed :)

In Which I Need To Be Royal

As I sat at the table this morning, still trying to finish reading the Spectrum from last Saturday and consuming my post-breakfast bowl of cereal (more on that later), I was so bloomin' happy to hear that today's temperature in Sydney is going to reach the balmy heights of 21 degrees!

That can only mean one thing - no more boots! Or socks. Or anything else I have to bend over my watermelon-proportioned belly to try and manoevre on to my feet. Because it's getting really bloody hard and my disappointing lack of attendance at pre-natal yoga classes means that trying to bring the foot to me, rather than the other way around, can mean more groin injuries than a football team.

So it's thongs and ballet flats and anything other footwear that can 'slip on' from now on.

Except for the pesky business of my walks. The one bit of exercise I am still doing. Lack of properly shod feet would be an excellent excuse to give up the walks, but fear of an arse the same size as my belly makes that a rather scary proposition. I need to keep walking and I need lace up shoes to do it.

I could get John to do it, but I always walk at 6am and he's usually still asleep. I could get Jack to do it, but have you seen the quality of a 7 year old's shoelace tying? One word - loose.

There's only one solution. A lady-in-waiting.

Perfect. Can't think of how I've done without one until now really. I'll get on to it. Just as soon as I finish reading last Saturday's papers.*

(* Finish Saturday's papers? Pah! This NEVER happens. Oh well . . . hello groin . . . )

Puberty Blues Meets Maturity Blues . . .

Starting with giggling into my skivvy at a sex education lecture in Year 6, then reading Puberty Blues in shocked awe by torchlight on a family camping trip and right through the 80s and 90s, going to uni, backpacking around Europe - anything to do with boys and sex was all about How Not To Get Pregnant.

Working up the courage to get the pill, fumbling with inside-out condoms and sometimes whispering urgent prayers to a previously neglected God when a period was two days late, getting pregnant was not an option.

My beautiful, carefree, naive child mother had only just turned 18 when she found out she was pregnant with me in January 1968. By 21 she had 3 children under four. That wasn't going to be me. I wanted to study, travel, have a career - you know, skinny dip in the Mediterranean and drink martinis in Soho and wear high heels and Cue suits to a Very Important Job when I eventually came home to the colonies daaahling.

Then in Melbourne, November 1986, when the hoop earings were big, the hairdos even bigger and George Michael was belting out 'I'm Your Man' (though little did we know he was aiming it at the Pet Shop Boys and not the West End Girls) I had a scary moment.

I was studying for my upcoming HSC exams and eating lots of vegemite toast and Choo-Choo bars when I received a welcome respite - an invitation to the Melbourne Cup from my ex-boyfriend who was still a good mate.

So I brushed my blackened Choo-Choo teeth, washed my greasy swot-vac hair and borrowed a salmon coloured taffeta dress from my Mum which I thought made me look rather fetchingly like Princess Di, but probably more like a giant salmon. In heels.

Twelve hours and as many glasses of an under-appreciated case of Moet later (a nice change from cask Moselle), the mud-drenched heels were flung in a corner, the taffeta was off and I was passed out in the ex-boyfriend's bedroom after an entirely forgettable tumble in the sack.

It wasn't until I'd finished my exams a few weeks later that I realised I was late. Really late. Like a week and a bit LATE! Oh God, it was like Puberty Blues come to life (except with less surf wax and more West Coast Coolers). Sitting on the loo every day, checking my knickers, praying for my period, promising God I'd cut up my fake ID and give up Iced Vo-Vos IF ONLY I WASN'T PREGNANT! We had used a condom, but I have no idea what happened to it. I couldn't even remember if it had stayed on.

Every scenario imaginable went through my head. Could I have a baby? What kind of mother would I make? What about going to uni? Was I destined to repeat my mother's fate? But on the other hand, could I terminate a pregnancy? Despite not having been to church for some years, there was enough residual Catholic-ness in me to reject the idea.

Of course, my period eventually came. I breathed a gigantic sigh of relief and put the whole thing down to HSC stress. What I didn't foresee, however, was that not a year went by when I didn't think about that phantom baby at least once, calculating its age, imagining how different my life would have been. This year, that imaginary baby would have been 23 years old. Good God.

And you know what? It would have been great. I would love to have a 23 year old child. Life would have been different, but I'd have been fine. I know myself and what I'm capable of and I would have coped.

The other thing I didn't foresee was an inability to conceive when I really wanted to in the future. I, like most young women, had it all mapped out. Children were in my future - at least 5 kids - and it would all happen with the greatest of ease.

Instead, life took a different path. Fast forward to the new millenium. It turns out I did end up with 5 children. Three of them, my step-kids, now in their 20s, then my adorable Jack who just turned 7, and finally the much wanted, hard-won, macarena-dancing, trampoline artist inside me who is due on 2 December this year.

But the thing is, I only just got there, just by the spiky little hairs suddenly apprearing on my maturing chinny chinny chin.

It took me 12 months to fall pregnant with Jack when I was 33 and then another 5 years of serious trying to fall pregnant with this one, finally happening with some serious intervention from a doctor on Kent Street. But I'm one of the lucky ones. It so nearly didn't happen. And those 5 years were full of all the ignorance, denial, guilt, pain and grief that so many women feel when they find they can't conceive.

But that's another story . . .