I was stopped short by this gorgeous photo exhibition, called “Please step quietly, everyone can hear you,” by Magnum photographer Trent Parke, while out for a jog past the Opera House on my lunch break today.
It's a lovely Alice-in-Wonderland view of the Opera House: tiny doors, strange statues, otherwordly lighting. Very inspiring.
Forget about developing a spare tire, barfing in the bathroom at work, or having gas worse than a certain lactose intolerant dog we know, the absolute hardest thing about being pregnant so far, is being unable to eat lots of the food I love.
See, the Australian government is quite strict in terms of what they advise pregnant women to ingest. No booze, of course. Limit the coffee. No food from delis. No salad bars. No soft cheeses or smoked meats, and careful about the red meats. No ham (I can hear Bettina gasping from Colorado). No pre-made sandwiches. No sushi, and keep to only those types of fish that are pre-approved – and make sure they’re so well cooked they taste like cardboard. No soft serve ice cream, and no milky drinks. Careful with the yoghurt. No bean sprouts. Step away from any adorable little lunch places, with their lovely pastas and pies and sweet little soups. Just forget about eating out for lunch. In fact, just forget about eating out, in general.
So, it’s basically plain, souless homemade chicken for me. Except make SURE TO GOD that it’s fully cooked, and no stuffing and don’t eat leftovers, whether cold or reheated. And if served with vegetables, make sure they're so clean you could perform an appendectomy with them.
It’s like my worst diet nightmare come true.
Sure, I’m sacrificing for my unborn child and keeping safe and blah-de-blah, but MAN ALIVE do I just want a slice of smoked salmon. Or a spicy tuna roll lathered in soy & wasabi. Or a meatball sandwich from this incredible deli run by embittered Italian ladies, near work.
I know it’s petty and immature and tragically selfish, and everyone I complain to reminds me that I only have about five months left of this, but let’s be real, here: five months is a long time to go without sushi. It's a long time to survive without sliced lunch meats. And when I ask myself every single day, "What can I have for lunch?", the time stretches out before me in blurry grey increments of tinny canned soups and hot, rubbery Lean Cuisines.
There are only very few palatable flavors of ready meals, and I've used up my yearly allowance of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. It IS a long time.
[Of course, the appendix to this story is that even though I bemoan and complain ad nauseum, I've been sticking to that damn pregnancy safe-list like white on rice. I'm not stupid. Just picky.]
So, I guess when I'm joyfully basking in the gift of birthing new life, and enjoying just how adorable The Bean's little Jon-like eyebrows are, I will also be celebrating the gift of good food. Like a rainbow flag declaring our support for diversity, so too our kitchen will be: roquefort, parma, and bean sprouts - our baby will grow up in a soft-cheese, deli-meat, sushi-friendly home.
Meet Jon's "mo".
Here in Australia, in lieu of Thanksgiving or Bonfire Night, they celebrate the great month of Movember, whereby men of all walks of life come together to grow hideous mustaches to raise money and awareness for mens' health issues.
Jon's particular mo is inspired by Australian cricketing icon Merv Hughes, and as you can see, even though it's only in its early stages, it's growing very well.
He's had several "compliments" from workmates and friends already, including "that's the most horrific mo I've ever seen."
If you'd like to see Jon's mo continue to grow, and support mens' health issues, please visit his page and make a donation, here.
That's right. You heard me..jpg)
Meet the Tiddlett 2010 (aka The Bean, El Frijolita, The Satchel, The Budgie I am Smuggling, etc), at 12 weeks in the womb.
In the very bad picture of the ultrasound you see above (our scanner's on the fritz), he or she is curled at the bottom of the photo, in profile. You can see his or her little head, a little body and teeny legs, and then a wee hand (with little fingers) waving at the camera about right where the nose is. In the real picture you can ACTUALLY see the fingers.
The bean has grown a lot in the past 12 weeks - busy sprouting limbs and a spinal cord and graduating from an embryo to fetus - altogether blowing my mind with his or her aptitude for development. There are even eyes and a heart that goes goosh-goosh-goosh at an alarming tempo.
Jon and I are, of course, elated. And surprised, as although this was planned, The Bean came about very early in the process. Which is the best sort of surprise.
We've been taking things slowly and quietly, which was difficult, considering I spent a lot of time over the past weeks yakking up my lunch in a bush outside the office. But thankfully all that bush-yakking has passed, and we're now ready to share.
So, this is something big. Something huge.
And sharing it here - on this blog which I've written since before I even knew Jon or went to Singapore, or got married or travelled the world, or even imagined I'd ever start a family - it somehow makes this milestone even more real, indeed.
