A weekend in the isolation tank.

Actually, that's not what it's been like at all. But the thought of a whole weekend with no Boy and no car at first had me holed up like a mushroom lady in the dark, subsisting on Vegemite and toast for two days.

Instead, I went out at the unprecedented hour of 8.45 last night, to meet Ingrid in the city and see a film at the festival - Over Your Cities Grass Will Grow. Parts of it were so absorbingly lovely, and others were stark and weird and full of the arrogance of the artist the film was about (I don't think we ever learned his name. Perhaps we were supposed to know).

The 'city' he built out in the French countryside was incredible. The most striking things were his concrete towers, supported in places by enormous lead books.


He may have been just a tiny bit of a wanker though.

This morning I baked banana bread before breakfast, and took some still-warm pieces with me to meet Anna and Ingrid at the Forum for The Illusionist. It was a sweet little film with some really amazing animation (and a lovely Jacques Tati cameo), but the story didn't have the happy ending it seemed to perhaps be leading to. It all got a bit lonely and grim. But that's ok. Life's not always happy endings. And magicians don't exist.

Afterwards we met the boys at Cookie for lunch. I ate quite a lot of duck jungle curry and stir-fried asparagus and beans, and coconut rice and cabbage omelette with pork and something on top. Mmmm, thai-style gluttony. Made my lips tingle and my belly warm, sitting in that big old room with the wintery sun streaming through those huge windows. Lovely. The dude who served us may well have been high, but we got a free beer and free coffees out of it, and no one was in a hurry, so it was fine. And not so expensive really. $30 for more lunch than I really needed.

Full of freedom and food, I strolled up to JB HiFi with my now customary post-lunch stitch and bought the new Arcade Fire album and the old Florence & the Machine, to keep me company this evening. And then I wandered through the alleyways to Lindt, and bought some substandard macarons and novelty Lindt balls (peanut butter, orange and raspberry).

There's nothing but a sleep in and perhaps some knitting on the agenda tomorrow. And of course the ever-present silent prayer that the bean is still growing. 11 weeks all seems well, apart from the fact that whatever minor symptoms I did once have seem to have almost completely subsided. Can't decide whether that's due to Nellie's magical supplements, eating better, getting more sleep, nearing the end of the first trimester, or just a sign that things have gone horribly wrong. A week and a bit to go until that scan.

We checked in with the Women's on Wednesday. I'm pretty sure that's where we'll end up. There's room for us in the Cosmos program, everything's free, and they have my history on tap. We will be booted out 24 hours after the baby is born, but the midwives make three visits in the next week, and mum has assured me she will be there to hold the baby whenever I need to sleep/shower/get out of the house for 10 minutes.

Today was the first day I consciously dressed-up the belly. Bump skirt and stretchy tops to emphasise what I do think is mostly banana bread rather than baby, but still. It was nice to feel publicly kind of pregnant, you know? It's the first time I've really embraced it rather than trying to strategically cover what little there was to show. I'm sure on Monday I'll be back to squeezing into work clothes, but I'm looking forward to these next few months, when things become obvious but not too cumbersome.

10 weeks. Big sleeps.

This week passed in a living room-based blur. No running and no yoga mean that I seem to have nothing much to do in the evenings, which suits me fine. Bed at 9 pm is just what I need.

But there were a couple of extra-curricular activities this week. On Wednesday we went to Cabrini for a tour of the maternity ward. La di da! It's very nice. I forgot to ask questions about baths and private midwives and so on, but it seemed very calm and welcoming, and the idea of 5 nights in a double bed to recuperate sounds GREAT. I was even comforted by the little Catholic paintings and crucifixes scattered about the place. Funny that most organised religion gets my hackles up in a violently disagreeable way, but because Catholicism seemed in my formative years to be just a cozy way to meet up with the other people with beachouses in Portsea, its symbols are nothing but comforting to me. I guess that massive painting of Mary in our corridor makes the same kind of sense.

Anyway, I was half hoping that Cabrini would ruffle my feathers in some way, and make the choice to go to the Women's that much easier. But no such luck. If it wasn't for the expense (which Joy has offered to cover - not sure if she realises it's likely to be $5000+), and the vague ideas that I want continuity of care and not too much intervention, I'd be totally sold. I'm glad we're booked in at least, and have a couple more weeks (and an appointment at the Women's in the meantime) to make the decision.

I went for the 10 week Downs blood test on Sunday. Won't know the results until they are combined with the 12 week scan, but I don't feel like it's something I particularly need to worry about. The odds are quite low, and at this stage I'm more interested in seeing whether we've actually got a growing baby at all, rather than dwelling on what problems it might have.

On that note, Mum said that as long as I still have symptoms, things are probably still fine. But I'm not sure exactly where I stand on that. I wasn't nearly as tired as I have been on Saturday. Whether that's because I had a much quieter week beforehand, or because we're closing in on the end of the first trimester, I don't know. I also didn't feel as sick on Saturday as I have before. Sunday was exhausting and nauseating, but I've begun to doubt my ability to interpret these things. Are they psychosomatic? Do I really need to lie down, or could I push on through if only I had the willpower? Also, not that it was ever a really big thing, but my breasts aren't nearly as tender as they were. They're still big and hard, but not sore.

In any case, whatever happens, I'm not going to be able to hide it for much longer. Eating so much so often has definitely taken a toll. It's not at all baby (because it's all above my uterus), but I've sure got a belly going on. Sooner rather than later my wardrobe is going to need replacing.

Amanda and Simon came for dinner on Saturday night and we have leftovers! Lasagne and coleslaw and quinces and homemade pistachio ice cream! That's all that there is to report about that!

We had dinner at Dave and Saira's on Sunday evening, and they're only a few weeks away. Things seem good, they've got a completely donated nursery sorted, baby seems healthy, they're all cool with their choices... Although they're not insured until the 20th, so it can't come early.

All of this is ahead of us, so long as the bean keeps ticking. We will see.

10km at 9 weeks. A cautionary tale.

So, 10km isn't such a walk in the park with a bun in the oven. I don't think I took it at all seriously enough. The last one was just such a breeze... Luckily, Barb was completely out of sorts as well, so I ran slowly with her, and pushed her through the worst of it and we crossed the line together in about an hour and 12 minutes. Not what I had hoped for, but not completely dismal either, I guess.

I should have done nothing at all on Saturday, but instead I filled the trailer with logs three times (though ploddingly, with small bits). I didn't drink enough water on Saturday afternoon, either. And getting up so early for the race (along with starting towards the back) meant that it was a good two hours since breakfast when I started to run. Two hours after breakfast on a normal work day and I'm famished sitting in my office chair. Not a great idea to try and run 10km on an empty stomach. I think I knew it was going to be hard work when the warm-ups killed me. Even though it was draining getting Barb across the line, I don't know what I would have done had she been in brilliant form. I don't think I could have kept up.

Anyway, I survived, and spent yesterday in bed (literally the whole day) recuperating, so I do feel almost human today. Although I didn't eat very much, and got to the point of retching nausea at about 6.30. I tried to eat a muesli bar and got as far as the box out of the cupboard before I needed to puke again. And the toilet lid is so revolting I had to hover and spit over the sink instead. I remembered the Up the Duff suggestion of eating something crunchy (to satisfy the 'lizard' part of our brain which equates crunchy with fresh) and an apple seemed to do the trick. But it made me think that perhaps the little bean is still growing in there. I have almost totally steeled myself for the absence of life at that scan in a couple of weeks. Every time one of the mothers says something to me about it, I'm vague and polite, but in my head, I'm so not actually having a baby in February. I can't latch on to that until we get through three months unscathed.

This was the week I cracked the shits after work one day and swept all the books and baby clothes and paraphernalia off the coffee table and into the spare room where I don't have to look at it each day. That pottymouthmama post really shook me up. I seem to have regained a little equilibrium, but it's still an awfully long time to know nothing.

I've been needing a sleepy day of nothing for ages, so the run was the perfect excuse. Comes hot on the heels of needing to have most of next Wednesday off, though... Don't know how all these sick days are going to go down, especially as I've barely taken any sick leave at all this year. It would be easier to cover if I was one of those women prone to 'headaches', who regularly needs a day or two at home. Oh well. The truth will out eventually.

There is simple beauty in everyday things.

Yesterday I trudged up the ramp from the train and was miserable at the thought of the hundreds of thousands of times I had made that same journey.

Today I stood on the platform at Richmond station, and noticed for the first time how the shadows of people walking on the other side of the railing flicker through the shadows of the bars on the ground and make a stop-motion strobe effect on the cracked asphalt.

Three weeks and three days.

Oh my goodness. Being stuck in this office with bloody Pinches and bloody everyone is doing my head in today.

I would so much rather be somewhere else.

Also, I read this, and it made me want to put my head down and sleepwalk through the next three and a half weeks.Three months is too long to live in limbo.

I know whatever happens, we'll be ok, but the longer things seem like they're fine, the harder it is to stay ambivalent about it all. Work is not distraction enough from all the maybes.

I almost don't want to write it down, but even though my body appears to know that it is pregnant, in my mind I just can't tell. I don't think I'd go as far as to say I know it's over, but I definitely don't know for sure that it's still going.

I had sort of convinced myself that 8 weeks was some kind of marker, that it would be ok once we made it past there. But there are so many stories of 9 and 10 week miscarriages. All of them without morning sickness... Three more weeks.

I built a face!

The Boy was away this week, so I was diligent about making healthy, sustaining food of an evening to take to work during the week (which worked out fine until I tried to eat Spanish rice for lunch three days running. I don't think smoked paprika and I are friends anymore.)

I missed him, but had something on every night, so was kept nice and busy. He came out of the refugee-camp wire pen that is the Tiger arrivals 'lounge', and I saw him unshaven and scarf-wearing with fresh eyes. Ooo-ee, my man be hot.

Saw Nellie and the school girls on Thursday, and am having my vitamin regime overhauled and concentrating on getting more calcium and iron into my diet. Nellie also gave me a stack of books to read about labour and birth. A little at a time seems to be enough right now.

Wednesday was a day of ginger beer for breakfast and constant nibbling to keep the nausea at bay, but it was still fairly mild. The only thing that made me feel like I might actually puke was the half-glass of orange juice I started the day with. A bowl of muesli shoveled in while distracting myself with Molly Wizenburg's love story seemed to do the trick.

Saturday was another 9.3km, and 10 next week will be fine. I'm not sure if I'll crack the hour mark, but it's not my race this time anyway. We'll see if we can't get the girls across the line in 1.05.

The Boy had a paper to write on Saturday afternoon, so I curled up on the couch with Gone With the Wind while he wrote, and we ventured out for our customary late lunch at Banff. (The potato and rosemary was disappointing! My version with those delicious dill and parsley soaked green olives from the market is far superior. I'll be glad when this first trimester is over so I can go back to all those deliciously forbidden toppings that were my usual standbys. Not that they're on the hideously misspelt menu that link goes to.)

We drove up to the farm late on Saturday night, and *gasp* took the laptop with us! We've never tainted the electricity-free status of the house before, but it was a perfect evening to snuggle in front of the fire and watch some Peep Show until the battery ran out.

Sunday was goat-moving, and good lord, I'm not much use these days. I don't feel like we moved particularly slowly, and there were a few delays what with the bolt popping out of one leg of the house while it was being dragged to the new location (and of course, us forgetting where the new location was, and beginning to set up in the wrong spot entirely), but that kind of thing happens most times we do this. Last time was especially fast, with dad helping, but with no rain, and not much sitting around, it still ended up taking us well over five hours.

Which leads me to the pregnancy update for this week: KNACKERED! I can't walk to the train without puffing. Doing a lap of the goat fence to collect the electric wire posts nearly killed me. I slept in the car on the way home (both legs) and still was so tired when we got home that I nearly cried over the prospect of making my own scrambled eggs. One episode of Peep Show and I was done for, aghast that it was only 8pm. But I didn't stir when The Boy came to bed nearly three hours later, and I slumbered through the cat squawking at 6.30 in the morning. Building a face is bloody tiring work.

A lamington changed my life.

Week 7 was a good one.

I had a couple of days of feeling queasy and eating crap to somehow try and make it better, but surprise, surprise, that didn't help. Just made me feel my bum jiggling in a new and disturbing way when I was running on Wednesday night. (I tried the wedding dress on last night, in preparation for Kate's dress-up party. Oh dear. It's a very close thing. If her do was on next week, there'd be no way.)

So, new leaf. Stop eating crap. Stop eating for two. Fill the constant gnawing void with bananas and nuts and yoghurt instead. I've ordered new running pants in a bigger size, and I'll ask Nicole for a new singlet too. That should get me through until after the race at least.

9km this morning ended up being quite a bit more than that, I think. I'd stored the map in my unreliable brain, and am not sure why I thought that would be ok. Still, made it. Didn't die. Probably will be quite sore tomorrow. (Bloody Chris and his no warm-ups philosophy.)

Yesterday we went to Vue de Monde for lunch. La di dah! It was lovely. Fennel rolls and french butter and some pretty amazing food. I loved the elderflower sorbet and cucumber palate cleanser between entree and main. De-licious. And my bounty souffle dessert was pretty magical. But the best part was the unexpected petit fours, just when I'd thought it was over. They popped that plate of incredible delicacies down in front of us, and it brought tears to my eyes. 'This is the best thing that has ever happened to me!'. Yes ma'am, I live in a tiny, sheltered world. There was nougat and caramels and macarons and passionfruit curd on lovely buttery wafers, and oh my goodness, chocolate mousse 'lamingtons' with raspberry coulis. Died and gone to heaven, I tell you. Amazing.

Wine tastes like dish water, my skin is softer than ever before and the boobs have taken on a life of their own (although I'm not sure whether anyone else can tell yet).

Nine months seems like an awfully long time, but we're almost two down already.