The joy of motherhood
The boss person of the Scottish Catholic church came out last week to say that the 1967 Abortion Law needs to be revised, as Scotland alone is terminating 2 classrooms of foetuses per day.
Australia went through the same ‘argument’ 3 years ago when then health minister and right wing muppet, Tony Abbott, tried to have terminations removed from the medicare system, implying boldly that terminations were being used blithely.
That Minister Abbott is Catholic had nothing to do with his position. It seems he would just prefer women give birth to unwanted children.
I am pro-choice. I make no apologies for it. Some people shouldn’t be parents – I am metacognitive enough to realise I am one of those people. I secretly suspect my cat is developing opposable thumbs so she can open her own food as I’m not even a particularly good pet owner half the time and I expect kids are more intensive than pets.
The news coverage of the Scottish cardinals’ views led to a conversation with a mate during the week about all things baby. I have only ever thought I was pregnant once, and as a result of that experience can say without a trace of any doubt, this is not the way you tell your partner he may soon be a dad.
The story goes something like this.
(The year is 1999, it’s summer in Australia and I’m commuting about an hour and a half each way to work.)
It’s baby season amongst all my friends – if they’re not currently hosting an alien being, they are ‘trying’ for one or are sleep deprived as a result of having just had one.
And then a friend calls me to tell me that a mutual friend had just had a termination. Throughout the course of the conversation it turns out that the mutual friend displayed no classic signs of pregnancy, but somehow just knew she was pregnant.
This thought stays with me for a few hours. About half an hour before I leave to go home it suddenly occurs to me that I have never been pregnant, and that if the mutual friend could be pregnant with no signs and is an intelligent and careful person, so could I. By the time I get in my car to go home, I have convinced myself am not only pregnant, but quite probably in labour.
I somehow manage to prise myself from my car en route to buy a pregnancy test, becoming more heavily pregnant each minute. By the time I pull into my driveway, I have convinced myself the baby is crowning.
So, I race into our house ripping the box open and clothes off so as to not waste a second… but then discover I don’t need to pee.
I have performance anxiety.
Ok – I think to myself – what is a sure fire way to need to pee?
Beer.
So, one beer later and my bladder is still not playing ball.
At this juncture I must confess I am a cheap drunk. Mates who have been out with me will attest that after about 3 beers anything shiny will distract me.
So, second beer and finally my bladder comes to the party. I am then faced with the logistical decisions – do I pee directly onto the stick? Do I use a glass? If I use a glass, which glass do I use? I opt for the glass (I am a lady after all) and choose one that my mother-in-law gave us, which I have always hated, and which despite my best efforts to break while washing up remains intact. So glass in hand I head to the bathroom.
While in the bathroom, words like mid-stream flash into my mind. God, now I also have to guestimate how long I will pee… I realise at this point I’m a bit drunk. However, glass in place and we’re away. Pee all over hand, hmmm… guess glass wasn’t quite in place. I have a new appreciation for guys and vow never to yell at my partner again for getting it everywhere when drunk.
Anyway, remove glass. Wash hand, thoroughly. Twice. Apply perfumed body lotion to hand to mask stench of pee. Unwrap stick and place in glass. It doesn’t quite fit as glass is squat and stick is not. Another reason to despise my mother-in-law. Consider finding tall glass and transferring pee to new glass, but drunkenly opt for pouring pee directly onto stick. I assume the stick will have some kind of absorbent material in it and that I am sober and coordinated enough to complete this task.
Both assumptions are incorrect. I now have pee all of my trousers, which are dry clean only. It occurs to me that as a mother I will never wear dry clean only ever again. This offends me more than the pee.
However, despite managing to spill seemingly litres of urine on myself I note that I have managed to make contact with the stick. The little window has turned blue. Bright blue. Advertising menstrual blood blue, ironically.
That can’t be good. I have seen enough American TV to know that when the window changes colour you have just surrendered your life.
Much to the chagrin of my feminist mates, I am a positivist so view the offending stick as the A study – thus no result can be determined yet. So I open the second (of the three) tests in the pack. However, am faced with the original dilemma of not needing to pee – so more beer.
Third beer down and the realisation of being a parent starts to sink in. We have just bought a coupe. The backseat is barely big enough to hold my handbag let alone a child seat. God, I’m going to end up driving a family car or a soccer mum van.
It occurs to me I don’t know why rainbows bend. I will be asked this by the child and I will not know. The child will be disappointed by my lack of knowledge. My partner knows this stuff, the child will ask him. The child will like my partner more… I am ok with this.
Third beer down and still suffering from performance anxiety, I open the fourth and final beer in the fridge. I make a mental note to buy more beer – and then realise there is no point. I will have to stop drinking. So will my partner. He will not have fun while I am gestating the child that will like him more.
I will have to stop smoking, I will have to give up caffeine, I cannot eat sushi or soft cheese. Random strangers will touch my belly. I will have to take folate – or at least find out what it is.
Half way through the fourth beer and my partner is still not home. This is a sign of my life to come – he will be at work, writing books and stuff and I will be stuck at home, sober and nicotine free with the physics savant child, flash carding it and teaching it primary colours and numbers.
Fourth beer down and back to the bathroom.
Eschew glass for peeing directly on stick by this stage. So, stick out of wrapper, and away we go. More pee on hands than stick, but enough to make stick again turn bright blue.
Immediately. Little white window again turns immediately blue. This is the B study. This is not good.
I place the second test next to first, neatly lined up like head stones for a life I used to have.
I have one test left. Third time lucky, right? However I am out of beer and now quite freaked out about the fact that I may be pregnant, so I choose tequila…and cigarettes.
So, wash hands; (not quite so thoroughly this time – I am drunk and rationalise that over the next 5 years worse things will come into contact with my hands than my own urine) inhale half a pack, and drink a third of a bottle of Cuervo Gold - directly from the bottle. I stagger back to the bathroom, vomit into toilet, and prepare to use third and final stick.
I may be totally shattered, but I have learned from the prior two occasions that this is a messy business so I take off all my clothes this time. I pee on the stick, my aim is getting better I note. The stick, spitefully, again turns bright blue.
I collapse onto the bathroom floor and start sobbing hysterically.
At this stage, my partner comes home to find me legless, naked, covered in my own urine and lying by a toilet filled with vomit.
He assumes some one is dead and immediately launches into caring, concerned partner.
A noise, which bridges the distance between guttural and shrill at the same time, emanates from me in a way I have never thought possible and ends with “ ’ken PREGNANT!”
He shuts the front door (naked, drunk and loud make for interesting viewing for the neighbours it seems) and says calmly “ok, what should we do about this?”
I scream at him drunken gibberish that sounds something like“ faackin chemist… more faackin tests… not faackin BROKEN”. I am nothing if not eloquent in the face of crisis.
He leans into to kiss me, thinks more of it, and dumps me into the shower, which he turns onto cold.
He exits stage left. Typical! Finds out I’m up the duff and does a runner.
While I am towelling off, I pick up one of the offending sticks.
The window is now white again. What the?
I pick up another – another white window.
I dive to the bin and dump the entire urine soaked contents on the tiled floor. The unbreakable glass obviously now breaks and shards embed themselves in my foot. I find the original box and withdraw the duvet sized instruction sheet, which I now read.
“The window will immediately turn blue to indicate that the test is working. After approximately 5 minutes the window will either fade, indicating you are not pregnant, or will remain blue, indicating you are pregnant.”
What kind of sadistic bastard would invent a pregnancy test where the window changes colour and then changes back?
Australia went through the same ‘argument’ 3 years ago when then health minister and right wing muppet, Tony Abbott, tried to have terminations removed from the medicare system, implying boldly that terminations were being used blithely.
That Minister Abbott is Catholic had nothing to do with his position. It seems he would just prefer women give birth to unwanted children.
I am pro-choice. I make no apologies for it. Some people shouldn’t be parents – I am metacognitive enough to realise I am one of those people. I secretly suspect my cat is developing opposable thumbs so she can open her own food as I’m not even a particularly good pet owner half the time and I expect kids are more intensive than pets.
The news coverage of the Scottish cardinals’ views led to a conversation with a mate during the week about all things baby. I have only ever thought I was pregnant once, and as a result of that experience can say without a trace of any doubt, this is not the way you tell your partner he may soon be a dad.
The story goes something like this.
(The year is 1999, it’s summer in Australia and I’m commuting about an hour and a half each way to work.)
It’s baby season amongst all my friends – if they’re not currently hosting an alien being, they are ‘trying’ for one or are sleep deprived as a result of having just had one.
And then a friend calls me to tell me that a mutual friend had just had a termination. Throughout the course of the conversation it turns out that the mutual friend displayed no classic signs of pregnancy, but somehow just knew she was pregnant.
This thought stays with me for a few hours. About half an hour before I leave to go home it suddenly occurs to me that I have never been pregnant, and that if the mutual friend could be pregnant with no signs and is an intelligent and careful person, so could I. By the time I get in my car to go home, I have convinced myself am not only pregnant, but quite probably in labour.
I somehow manage to prise myself from my car en route to buy a pregnancy test, becoming more heavily pregnant each minute. By the time I pull into my driveway, I have convinced myself the baby is crowning.
So, I race into our house ripping the box open and clothes off so as to not waste a second… but then discover I don’t need to pee.
I have performance anxiety.
Ok – I think to myself – what is a sure fire way to need to pee?
Beer.
So, one beer later and my bladder is still not playing ball.
At this juncture I must confess I am a cheap drunk. Mates who have been out with me will attest that after about 3 beers anything shiny will distract me.
So, second beer and finally my bladder comes to the party. I am then faced with the logistical decisions – do I pee directly onto the stick? Do I use a glass? If I use a glass, which glass do I use? I opt for the glass (I am a lady after all) and choose one that my mother-in-law gave us, which I have always hated, and which despite my best efforts to break while washing up remains intact. So glass in hand I head to the bathroom.
While in the bathroom, words like mid-stream flash into my mind. God, now I also have to guestimate how long I will pee… I realise at this point I’m a bit drunk. However, glass in place and we’re away. Pee all over hand, hmmm… guess glass wasn’t quite in place. I have a new appreciation for guys and vow never to yell at my partner again for getting it everywhere when drunk.
Anyway, remove glass. Wash hand, thoroughly. Twice. Apply perfumed body lotion to hand to mask stench of pee. Unwrap stick and place in glass. It doesn’t quite fit as glass is squat and stick is not. Another reason to despise my mother-in-law. Consider finding tall glass and transferring pee to new glass, but drunkenly opt for pouring pee directly onto stick. I assume the stick will have some kind of absorbent material in it and that I am sober and coordinated enough to complete this task.
Both assumptions are incorrect. I now have pee all of my trousers, which are dry clean only. It occurs to me that as a mother I will never wear dry clean only ever again. This offends me more than the pee.
However, despite managing to spill seemingly litres of urine on myself I note that I have managed to make contact with the stick. The little window has turned blue. Bright blue. Advertising menstrual blood blue, ironically.
That can’t be good. I have seen enough American TV to know that when the window changes colour you have just surrendered your life.
Much to the chagrin of my feminist mates, I am a positivist so view the offending stick as the A study – thus no result can be determined yet. So I open the second (of the three) tests in the pack. However, am faced with the original dilemma of not needing to pee – so more beer.
Third beer down and the realisation of being a parent starts to sink in. We have just bought a coupe. The backseat is barely big enough to hold my handbag let alone a child seat. God, I’m going to end up driving a family car or a soccer mum van.
It occurs to me I don’t know why rainbows bend. I will be asked this by the child and I will not know. The child will be disappointed by my lack of knowledge. My partner knows this stuff, the child will ask him. The child will like my partner more… I am ok with this.
Third beer down and still suffering from performance anxiety, I open the fourth and final beer in the fridge. I make a mental note to buy more beer – and then realise there is no point. I will have to stop drinking. So will my partner. He will not have fun while I am gestating the child that will like him more.
I will have to stop smoking, I will have to give up caffeine, I cannot eat sushi or soft cheese. Random strangers will touch my belly. I will have to take folate – or at least find out what it is.
Half way through the fourth beer and my partner is still not home. This is a sign of my life to come – he will be at work, writing books and stuff and I will be stuck at home, sober and nicotine free with the physics savant child, flash carding it and teaching it primary colours and numbers.
Fourth beer down and back to the bathroom.
Eschew glass for peeing directly on stick by this stage. So, stick out of wrapper, and away we go. More pee on hands than stick, but enough to make stick again turn bright blue.
Immediately. Little white window again turns immediately blue. This is the B study. This is not good.
I place the second test next to first, neatly lined up like head stones for a life I used to have.
I have one test left. Third time lucky, right? However I am out of beer and now quite freaked out about the fact that I may be pregnant, so I choose tequila…and cigarettes.
So, wash hands; (not quite so thoroughly this time – I am drunk and rationalise that over the next 5 years worse things will come into contact with my hands than my own urine) inhale half a pack, and drink a third of a bottle of Cuervo Gold - directly from the bottle. I stagger back to the bathroom, vomit into toilet, and prepare to use third and final stick.
I may be totally shattered, but I have learned from the prior two occasions that this is a messy business so I take off all my clothes this time. I pee on the stick, my aim is getting better I note. The stick, spitefully, again turns bright blue.
I collapse onto the bathroom floor and start sobbing hysterically.
At this stage, my partner comes home to find me legless, naked, covered in my own urine and lying by a toilet filled with vomit.
He assumes some one is dead and immediately launches into caring, concerned partner.
A noise, which bridges the distance between guttural and shrill at the same time, emanates from me in a way I have never thought possible and ends with “ ’ken PREGNANT!”
He shuts the front door (naked, drunk and loud make for interesting viewing for the neighbours it seems) and says calmly “ok, what should we do about this?”
I scream at him drunken gibberish that sounds something like“ faackin chemist… more faackin tests… not faackin BROKEN”. I am nothing if not eloquent in the face of crisis.
He leans into to kiss me, thinks more of it, and dumps me into the shower, which he turns onto cold.
He exits stage left. Typical! Finds out I’m up the duff and does a runner.
While I am towelling off, I pick up one of the offending sticks.
The window is now white again. What the?
I pick up another – another white window.
I dive to the bin and dump the entire urine soaked contents on the tiled floor. The unbreakable glass obviously now breaks and shards embed themselves in my foot. I find the original box and withdraw the duvet sized instruction sheet, which I now read.
“The window will immediately turn blue to indicate that the test is working. After approximately 5 minutes the window will either fade, indicating you are not pregnant, or will remain blue, indicating you are pregnant.”
What kind of sadistic bastard would invent a pregnancy test where the window changes colour and then changes back?
