That’s what you gotta do

Think happy thoughts, happy thoughts

And a smile’ll come back to you

Thanks for all of your kind messages everyone.  I’m pleased to say that mr hissychick has started the ball rolling in terms of appropriate treatment and has been making a concerted effort in terms of his own behaviour.  No it does not take away the pain of what I discovered but it helps somewhat when action is taken rather than platitudes mouthed.

Bertramina is doing well, she has decided to recommence the whole lock and load procedure, so much so that I spent a large portion of last night somewhat panicked about the possibility of a pre Christmas birth.  However I am keeping my legs dutifully crossed on the sage advice of Simone, who reminded me that a post Christmas birthday would be far more cost effective as I could purchase presents in the sales.

Miss A and miss E are their crazy unique, intelligent, gorgeousi yet exasperating selves, who are each expressing unique and challenging reactions to the impending arrival of their sister.

Our youngest imp has been ensuring that we do not get cocky enough to enjoy an unbroken night’s sleep before Bertramina arrives (hey, why start after two and a half years?).  Apparently only Mummy in Mummy’s bed will do and right now I just can’t be arsed dealing with it.  That honour shall fall to the husband while I am in hospital.  Thing is…she gets away with this and murder in general because she disarms us with a smile and a cheeky comment rather than an argument. Little minx.

My mini me is as fragile as a delicate flower wanting so much attention but rewarding us with some of the most vile behaviour yet, which I won’t share with you readers because the parents of threenagers and the like in case you lose the will to live don’t need to know just what is in store for them just yet.  There has also been a hell of a lot of incessant whining about being last, and ultra competitiveness that would do an Olympic athletes head in.

I try to hide a lot, which is not easy when you truly are a Christmas pudding.

Anyway I’d best get back to using my last two daycare hours (ever for Miss A and until late Jan for miss E) to do nestingy stuff so that I don’t have yet another panic attack about the whole birthing gig.

Smooches.

I know, I know, I have not been the bestest blogger of late.  It’s just that I don’t do the third trimester well.

More specifically, I don’t do the sleep deprivation from flailing around in bed like a beached whale coupled with mood swings from massive hormonal surges at all.

I have been a total bogan fishwife mother of late…and the main target of my less than desirable parenting by screeching approach has been miss A.  I am not trying to excuse myself, but let’s just say a totally bored and ready for school intelligent daughter with a sassy mouth combined with a less than patient equally hot headed mother is as explosive as…I don’t know…a nuclear warhead.  I do not exaggerate.

Miss E has learned quickly to escape my wrath by continuing to emanate the kind of adorableness that will see her exonerated from charges relating to burning down the school, even as she stands there lit match in hand.

Bertramina is not forgotten in all of this, continuing to grow and kick and stretch and hiccup, hands up around her face as if to ward off the chaotic world she will soon enter.  It is frightening to think that in around five or six weeks there will be another little person joining the hissychick family.

Guess that means I should, um, actually start washing clothes, packing hospital bags and organising a place for her to sleep, instead of buying yet another new pram and having to list several others on ebay.

Told you I was nuts.

Enough of the crazy lady rambling. Here is a belly, bits and all shot from last week to distract you from the crappy writing.

Off I go.  This hastily snatched blogging time has come at the cost of a poo filled nappy to change and newspapers strewn across my entire loungeroom. And no neither of those was me. This time.

Hold me for I am afraid.

Well it’s only partly that.

I have been dealing with ‘just a virus’ for over a week right now, a dreadful snotty lurgy that has tortured my throat and nose and general will to live, before deciding to settle in my right ear this morning, from which I have not yet regained my hearing.

Oh the pressure as the train ascends the mountain, the freaking pressure.  And no suitable decongestant drugs to be had thanks to the first trimester/breastfeeding combo that leaves you with something as useless as your immune system to deal with it all.

But there’s no more time for sooking and fondly remembering the golden days of pregnancy, when you could actually lie around and do stuff all.  Although thanks to the darling man that is mr hissychick I have been doing as much of that as I can.

I digress.

You see my two darlings have pulled a two for one get out of jail daycare pass on me.  This morning I received a phone call at work to inform me that E has severe conjunctivitis in both eyes, and while we’re at it, A has hurt her mouth and you might want to get the still bleeding area and wobbly tooth checked out.

Mr hissychick valiantly escaped the office to collect the kids.

Of course the earliest doctors appointment we could get is tomorrow  (and not one for myself, around our way you have to give the medical establishment two weeks notice that you might be sick ).  Somehow through the magic that is my husband this does not clash with the afternoon with the pediatric  dentist gig.  So our day off will be a fun one of juggling engagements a mere 50 km away from each other, thankfully with a visit to Nana to offload the gunky eyed one and new batch of germs collected at the doctor’s office in between.

Despite all of the shenaningans one thought keeps running through my mind: Could it really be true that this time next year I’ll be juggling a third kidlet and their issewes as well?

God I hope so.