Face it, or Facebook it.

I liken Facebook, to a dinner party.

To your left, you have someone who is an avalanche of words.  You know their aunties and uncles by name, how many pet fish they have and what they plan to do for dinner next Wednesday.  And you have only known them ten minutes. To your right, is someone who doesn't say boo.  But they play a lot of candy crush.  Sitting across from you, speaks in motivational posters, and tells you daily it's 11:11 on the clock.  Down the end of the table, is a debate over what clean eating is, across from that talks of politics and out of earshot someone stands up and says:

I LOVE ROAST POTATOES.

It's a noisy old place.

Photos of sunsets, chia this & that, feet, selfies, kids winning awards, sold stickers, promotions, holidays and general dance of: this is all the feels, facebook.

To be honest, I love it.  Some days, I think we're all part of a huge social experiment.  But I love people watching and putting my amateur psychologist hat on. It is my outlet.  Living in a new town, my social network is limited.  I love popping onto facebook, and having a chat over my cuppa.

I love to know what you are doing.  I do!  Not in a tap tap, it's me at your window stalking kind of way. But your holiday snaps.  What you saw today.  That funny thing your kid just did.  My Mum lives a good 10 hours away, and I love seeing her little snaps of the garden or the dogs causing chaos.

It's a conversation.  It's more than just liking something.  I often worry, I share too much.  That I need to find my own mute button.  I am working on that.  It's not like I see something and go: right, must share this to show everyone WHAT A FABULOUS LIFE I HAVE.  I have never been like that.  I love taking photos.  I like seeing humour in things.  I face 99% of my life, but that 1% when I have sat on the loo floor for 20 minutes with projectile morning sickness and I have an inflamed pubic bone that is as fun as it sounds.. I share.  Because if I am honest, I have my network of people I can turn to.. but in some moments.. you just need a word vomit.

It is a dinner party.  You do need manners. Just look at Sonia Kruger announcing her pregnancy to see the vial words people feel happy to put out there.  The written word is much different to the spoken.  Share your story, respect others.  Share something fun, a photo.. or just say g'day.

Facebook, it is noisy.  It can be fun.  I like my little space.

Ladies Day.

Another time, on another blog.. I used to raise a hand to Friday and give it a triumphant HIGH FIVE! But alas, I started a new blog and Fridays quickly became Ladies Day.

Ah what now? 

Ladies day is where EG & I choose all things that ladies like.  With a 4 year old that quickly makes a list offering: popcorn, movie and please can I have another Filly, mum?  Chris teaches in the city all day, and he doesn't come home until Charlie-puppy is tucked up with his Milo with the newest edition of "Savings Plan for dogs that eat ALL THE THINGS"

So what's been happening around the traps?

Big news on the girl bits/boy bits department.  It's A GIRL! sisters! Chris is mud mapping a Man Cave and I am already concerned over the one bathroom situation we have.  I have firm memories of hallways fights with my sister on the race to the shower.  But, sisters! Can you believe?  EG jumped into the air when we told her, and tells me daily that she's excited to have a sister.  We had a scan at 21 weeks and judging by the rate of kung-fu moves per minute... we do not have a quiet one on our hands.

I feel content in knowing.  So beautiful.  It is truly amazing, this whole carrying a baby business.

These, my friends.  Are Filly's.  They are $3 and sold at woolies.  They are also EG's favourite things.  I bought them a special tin today.  Why?

Well:

Charlie ate the leg off a Sylvanian.  Enter stage left: dad.  Furniture maker, business man and Sylvanian crutch maker.

He went on a voyage to Kindergarten in The Me Bag.  A show and tell bag, that EG decided to fill up with the contents of her room.  Negotiations took a few days, but we narrowed it down to 3 favourites. Related: kinder teachers have the patience of saints.

BMX bandit is taking over the street.  Man, she is quite fast. Or, I actually could be quite slow.

22 weeks hey?

How am I? Tired. And bloody sore.  I am seeing an Osteopath, who is being quite mean to my muscles.  I have somehow lost another kilo, and have a lot of punnets of tomatoes in my fridge that tell me that, that craving is done and dusted.

I have had many moments this week, where I have just cried.  I am sore. I am tired.  I am.. well quite pregnant.

And there she is.  Another lady for our ladies day.

Loz xx

I feel I should be knitting.

On the eve of hitting that milestone: 21 weeks.  I have decided on three things:

1. Watching One Born Every Minute makes me cry, my toes curl and turn to my husband and ask why? WHY? For the love of cheese & biscuits why?  
2. My osteopath is lovely.  We talk about settling babies, hideous maternity clothes and heartburn. Makes for massaging my pelvic region a little less awkward. I may need to wear a brace and I am compiling that fact to my ongoing list of Loz is ravishing: she has a hobble and needs a brace.
3. My cravings have subsided. Which is lucky for said husband, because he said he felt like he has eaten a salt lick last week.  

Also to this list, is my lack of house-y like duties.  It says a lot, when your four year old announce that "MUM!THIS WASHING HAS BEEN DRYING HERE FOR THREE DAYS!"

I can't even wallow in self pity on Wednesday nights with a bag o' cheezels and Offspring.  Have you watched The Bachelor? These girls know right?  That even he has no idea what has been planned on their dates?  He was out getting his teeth vaselined and practising handing roses to the mirror.  That when reality really hits, their dates will consist of wilted servo carnations and leaving the loo seat up?

It is clear, from that above paragraph.  I need to turn the telly off and read my Birth Skills book.

Which reminds me.

Sparkles.  Oh the one with the ultra-kicky legs at 4am.  The one that joins in at loon hour and makes me exclaim NO! YOU'RE SUPPOSED to be the second child of calm everyone promised me.  Oh Sparkles.  Have a busy week of appointments next week.  Big scan on Monday, where we hook our eyes to the small screen and exhale when all growing bits are growing in the right places etc.  Where hopefully he/she is feeling like sharing whether he or she is a he or she.

Plans have me orchestrating Operation: Nursery.  Storage has been devised and I am pinning unrealistic ideas on Pinterest.  I spent a good hour of my life thinking about constructing a mobile.  Considering I sewed my embroidery accidentally onto my primary school dress.. I am seeing a trip to made-it in my future.  I feel I should be knitting.  

Instead today, I sat in my car, inhaled a crunchie and congratulated myself for not crying in the really sore bits at the osteo today.  

So. 21 weeks hey Sparkles?  

Sorry, Mum can't knit anything but dodgey scarves and I once tried crochet.  It didn't end well.

Hobbles McGrumpy Pants.

I sat in the waiting room.  Across from me was a row of chairs, framed by the usual stock standard waiting room art that is usually spectacularly boring.  I filled out my form.  Occupation? Chief in Negotiations?  Commander of please put your socks on? Or how about Please don't overfeed the fish and kill them.  I circled that I indeed was having a baby and dove into the depths of my bag hoping my medicare card would present itself.

Form filled and medicare card located, I waited.

Osteo o'clock.

I have never seen one in my life.  I had no idea what to expect, but I did have an epic hobble and a surly look on my face that would've rivalled that Twilight bird. 

SPD. Or if you are ever filling out a crossword puzzle: Symphysis pubis dysfunction. 

Oh no really, it's as fun as it sounds.

Here, read this and send me all your tea & sympathy: http://www.babycenter.com.au/a546492/pelvic-pain-spd

I know, hit the jack pot Loz they call me.

It makes me one part hobbly and ten parts really shitty.  It feels like your joints have been replaced with razor blades and you think life might be easier if you put scaffolding around your tummy.  It also makes someone who have never met before manipulate parts of your groin to the point that I feel I should of bought her dinner first.  

It also makes me incredibly sad.  

It's not an injury that you can really push through with, you should really rest.  Not that I am really capable in signing up to The Marathon, but I'd like to check the mail without clutching my bits and crying in the kitchen because I am flipping over it.

I think the hardest part, is you know what a precious bundle you are carrying. I still fight my inner voice, the one that tells me how lucky I am.  With a history of endometriosis, I still remember being told that to carry a child would be hard.  So, guilt.  Then your daughter runs up to you for a hug, and you can't pick her up.  So, guilt.  It's lunch time, and you know you should get a start on it.  But the thought of even walking to the kitchen.. hurts.

I feel I am half parenting EG. In typical 4 year old fashion, she is finding her feet, her confidence and voice.  She pushes boundaries and I feel battle weary and can't even fathom how I'll fend this one. 

And the morning vomits are back.

I know.  

Half way.  20 weeks today.  A huge milestone.  

If you need me, I have promised EG a movie night.  You'll find me having a pit stop on the way to the popcorn aisle..

take two.

Second time around, is one half reassuring and one half .. it's been nearly 5 years and OH MY GAWD I HAD FORGOTTEN THAT ALL THE THINGS HURT. Seriously, I had to make a pit stop at the milk aisle yesterday.  I am by no means, a walking advertisement for pregnancy. Unless you are going for a weepy, walking-like-a-texas-ranger Pregzilla type vibe.  Plus, last night I had no sleep because: Charlie-puppy had extreme gas and kept giving himself frights.  

My hair is growing quite nicely though! swish, swish. 

Second time around, I am pro-active.  Aside from kicking a flatulent Charlie-puppy out to another room.. I am my own pregnancy crusader.  With EG's pregnancy, I soldiered on.  I had billions of questions, but was always rushed.  I knew no different.  I thought morning sickness was just the card I was dealt with. I thought labour was labour and had my birth plan.  I never questioned why I was being induced, if my child was ready to come earth side sideways.  You just do, what you do.

Every time, I feel I am reaching a road block.. I repeat to myself. Be proactive.  So I have booked into an Osteopath.  I wrote on my hospital notes, that (in not so many words) I am packing my pants at the thought of child birth.  I ask for help.  I talk openly & honestly to Chris.  That today was a struggle. That I am tired.  So tired.  Being pregnant, with a four year old.. is a huge hurdle.

I have bought zip zero for this child.  For many reasons.  A) I am waiting impatiently to find out the flavour I am baking.  If it's a girl, then I can attack the bags in storage with gusto. If it's a boy, then look out Target.. I am coming at YOU. B) I have everything really, pram cot etc.

But the main reason?

You can have everything from Babies are Zany (or whatever camp named store they all seem to be called) and to be honest.  What a baby needs?  It's you.  I learnt so much from my hazy newborn days with EG.  It's a time, where you are both learning.  About each other.  What you like, hate, enjoy and what limit you can take sleep deprivation to. No one ever knows what they are doing.  Ever.  You are building a relationship.  So I am brain storming.  Stream lining life.  Building routines and ideas, to help. Researching wraps, so I am hands free to help with EG at school.  I am reading, asking, thinking. I'd rather create my safe haven nest, then go mental buying everything. With a first child, you a smug.  You'll break the mould. You'll unlock the code.  Second child? You beeline to realistic ideals. 

Well, that's this week.  Next week I will most likely be at Babies are Cootie Patootie buying a wipe warmer.

The biggest factor with labour, is I want to have control.  I am not a prude.  I am not a control freak. I am not an airy-fairy birth plan waving warrior.  I just want the best outcome.  In hindsight, Eg's labour was scary.  It shouldn't have been.  It effected our first few months together, dramatically.  I cried this morning, it just got all too much.  Chris held me.  Promised me, he was there for me then.. and he will be there for me now.  He was my rock in labour with EG.  Literally.  I have vague recollections of being held up be him as I wailed like a banshee on the floor.  It was traumatic.  

It's about creating that head space.  Being informed, proactive and realistic. 

It's about, waiting for Sparkles.

I can't wait little one, I cannot wait.