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When I first fell pregnant, I vowed to myself that I would never write about the mysteries of female mammalian procreation. "Oh no," I told myself, "keep a little mystery in it for all of the other girls, Kaz." But, as time draws on, I'm finding it harder and harder not to become one of those smarmy women who thinks they're the only ones who have ever played host to a foetus. And anyway, we all know how much the world needs one more person blogging condescendingly about the trials and tribulations of pregnancy. There's a real dearth of funny pregnancy blogs that scare the bejesus out of teenage mothers ... or not ... and so ... I have decided to blog about it.

At first, the situation wasn't really that hilarious I have to admit. Sure, it was a planned pregnancy — at least I think it was, the other half had convinced himself that an abundance of Bundaberg Rum is a form of contraception and was slightly befuddled when he realised that the months of "trying" as I called it had actually amounted to conception. Who'd have thunk it?

The first sign that anything was afoot was when my breasts started campaigning for their own postcode. Not only were my enormous bosoms impossible to hide, they were also becoming increasingly veiny and soon resembled a google map of the Australian Alps. On top of that, my nipples were growing too and appeared to be attempting to abseil off the face of Mounts Gi and Normus. I am a woman who has always been possessed of ridiculously small nipples — nipples so tiny that "no nipples", "no nipples" was a taunt my friends employed frequently when I was at university (and very much regretting ever topless sunbathing). Prior to that, it was "no boobs, no boobs" until they inadvertently poked my right eye out during year eleven. Well, hello there!

Anyway, I was rather fond of my petite pink nipples which never caused me any trouble and remained permanently on low beam unless the weather dropped below freezing or they were being interfered with. But, as soon as the pregnancy happened, my nipples took on a life of their own. Even the slightest movement of a T-shirt would perk them up unnaturally and now, at six months, if I'm not careful to hide them in the ugliest thickest maternity-esque bra I can find they threaten to stick out like plumbers thumbs at any moment. All of the pregnancy books console small-breasted women with the concept that their breasts will be "wonderfully full, giving them a curvaceous figure" or, in my case, a figure like a jersey cow. I can't wait for the suction cups of expressing breast milk!

It's official - I am a nerd!

I spent so long denying it  - years even. I deliberately didn't laugh at some episodes of Big Bang Theory. I pretended I had no idea that Schrödinger's cat wasn't just your average domestic moggy. I never admitted to anyone but my friend Anna that I actually quite enjoyed watching reruns of the Starship Enterprise at university. I pretended Dark Matter was what Koert pulled out of his ears with a Q-tip after a hard day's concreting. But there it is: I am a nerd. I've said it. Are you happy now?

It's not that I haven't always known this. In fact, for decades now I would happily admit to being a word nerd (word nerd being a term that is slightly preferable to "writer" or "book worm", both of which bring to mind aeons spent boring through writing (which I like to think I do quite well. Indeed I am probably boring through writing right now, so back to the point... ). Book worm also has unappealing connotations of spinelessness and how would I write, or survive in the industry I work in, without that all important spinal cord? 

Now where was I ...Oh, that's right. It's just that I have only recently realised I am becoming an even bigger, less socially acceptable kind of nerd. The kind of nerd people roll their eyes at. The kind of nerd who thinks Dr Karl is cool. The kind of nerd who at least tries to understand String Theory. Yep, that's right: a science nerd. 

I mean, I am now the kind of science nerd that points out to my partner, subconsciously, the scientific name of an animal. "Oh look, there is a galah in our tree (then in a disturbing whisper reminiscent of that creepy kid off that show The Middle, "Cacatua roseicapilla, Cacatua roseicapilla"). If you know me, well, sadly my nerdiness has reached such a level that you won't need evidence. But if you don't, well all you have to know is that I hid this website from my partner  NASA test for nerdism

"What are you doing over there?" he asked, dropping the X-box controller for a minute in the hope that I might be doing something even remotely more interesting than playing Modern Warfare II (and personally I think filing my fingernails qualifies).
"Nothing," I cried, shielding the website from him desperately, my eyes wide with nerdy wonder.
"What is it?" he asked, curious now and likely hopeful that I might have been viewing porn (quickly closing the web tab and breezily smiling "nothing"  being the standard response for such activities in man world).
"Nooooo," came my response as I slammed down the lid of my laptop. "You'll call me a nerd."
"Now why would I say such a thing," he crooned, in a particularly deceptive effort to gain my trust, only to hoot with triumph as soon as he saw it, "You're SUCH a NERD! Ba-hahahahha. NERD."
(Why it has taken him nearly five years to figure that out is a mystery, but it could be that he spent the first four years so baffled by my incredible breasts that my tragic nerdiness has only just caught up with him. At least that's what I tell myself.)

Why did I hide it? Same reason I deliberately got one question wrong when he busted me looking at it - I am ashamed, all right! Ashamed I tell you. But if you really want to know whether Uranus has rings, well I'd say you just have to satisfy that craving. My anus doesn't have rings by the way, he's much more a man-bracelet guy.

Hands of Mass Destruction

The boy was most unimpressed last night when I woke him up at four in the morning to check out a "noise" (footsteps I tell you!) coming from our front verandah. Naked and armed with nothing but a large, long black baton (no, seriously, it's not a euphemism. He had an old Maglight) he crept with trepidation towards the glass door, then, with no hesitation at all, flicked the verandah light on and strolled out to greet the sleeping neighborhood and any potential robbers in the nick.

Nothing.

"Must have been a possum Kaz!" he yelled, as I cowered inside, comfy and covered in my bathrobe. (Yeah, a bloody big possum with human-sized feet and the ability to rattle doorknobs I thought.) When he arose at 5:30 am this morning to go to work he complained again about being woke up. "Robbers" he scoffed. Then ridiculed me with, "Ohh, what's that noise? What's that noise. Anyway the dog would have barked. (I strongly doubted that. The dog does a lot of things, usually destructive, but it doesn't seem to mind intruders).
"And why did you give me the maglight," he quizzed. "I don't need a baton to thwack a robber in the head by the way."
"What were you going to use then?" I asked, mildy interested in the answer and expecting some predictable early morning macho talk, potentially relating to unmentionable male parts.
"My fists," he rolled his eyes and put up his dukes. "My fists are weapons of mass destruction," he boasted.
"No," I responded as he left the room. "If what I busted you doing in the lounge room the other day is anything to go by, your fists are weapons of mass debation."
I don't think he'll be getting up to check on any would-be robbers anytime soon so hopefully the crims (and the man-sized possums) leave us alone for now!