Doctor Nose Best

A week and a half ago my gynae let me know that our hospital’s policy had changed and that I would in fact need to go for a proper Covid-19 test before birth. It wasn’t a complete shock, as I know things are changing rapidly with the virus and with the upcoming adjustments in lockdown level. Since then, I’ve been telling people (only kind of jokingly) that I was almost more nervous for the Covid test than for birthing a whole human… Kidding aside, I was super nervous. I watched my man have his done, and he was a trouper, but then he generally is. Everything I’d read or heard from others intimated that they basically swab your brain with a super long ear bud, and that it’s appalling.

So I took myself off to the hospital this morning, filled out the forms and screening questions including the “List of persons you have been in close contact with section” and then lowered my mask and tilted my head back. Reader, yes, it does feel a little like they scrape your brain. And it’s not pleasant. But it wasn’t as traumatic as I was expecting. It did feel like the swab took weeks to reach its destination, and when it finally found the end of my nasal canal (or whatever the medical term is, I vote “brain” as the most accurate) it set up camp there for far longer than was decent. Certain she could go no further, the nurse sort of wiggled the swab around a bit, pointedly ignoring my “urgh”s.

There was no shooting or sharp pain like I’d been half expecting – more like a burning sensation. And it took longer than I thought it would. But then it was over, and my nasal passage was once again unoccupied, if feeling a little violated. A few hours later, and it’s still slightly sensitive. Almost like there’s a sneeze waiting. The kind you’d find pulsing in your head when you were eight and your neighbour had put far too much chlorine in their pool mere minutes before your chaotic game of Marco Polo.

I hope to have the test results back in the next few days. I’d like to be blasé and says I’m sure I’m clear, after all, I’ve been holed up at home for the past 70+ days, leaving only for doctor appointments and essential shopping or baby-related business. When I do leave home, I’m masked up and very conscious about washing my hands and sanitising. But let’s be honest, nothing is completely fool proof. And the fact that people can have the virus and be asymptomatic… well… I’m not about to be assuming anything.

Basically, what I’m saying, is don’t stress too much if you end up having to get tested. It’s not all that horrendous. Now, is it too much to hope that pushing a child out will be similarly uneventful? Hah.

Of Easters gone by

The dry grass whips at my bare thighs as I bolt along the well-worn pathway towards the beach. In front of me my brother and little cousins bob and weave, their heads ducking out of view every few seconds and gradually the smell of braai smoke fades, to be replaced by the salty tinge of the cool sea air.

Easter holds a certain kind of magic when you’re barely much older than ten. Like all families, we had our traditions. Every year we would gather for a braai at Great Aunty Eileen’s house in Murdock Valley a short way past Simon’s Town. It was all chipolatas cooked to popping and sometimes charred over the flames, that mysterious brown cave of a bathroom, the winding stairs down to her bungalow with its breath-taking sea view, an ever-expanding prickly pear jungle that still makes me itch to think about it, knobbled glasses of brandy or Tab, those packs of ice you used to make in the bag and then pop each round out individually many of them skidding across the kitchen floor, and of course, Easter egg hunts around the house and down among the rocks.

Three decades later and I can still clearly picture my young self carefully scrutinising the fygies and stone walls hoping for a glimpse of bright foil or plastic, spotting any easy-to-reach eggs and subtly guiding one of the small cousins in its direction. I can smell the sausages, and hear the cries of the grown-ups as another one slips through the grid and into the coals. I can almost feel the fluffy carpet beneath my legs as I sit in the lounge and listen to Great Aunty Eileen recounting some story or other from days gone by. I don’t remember her words, but I remember the laugh in the corners of her mouth and the flicker of fun in her eyes.

On any normal visit, it was a massive treat to be allowed to retreat to her sunroom and carefully, so as not to disturb the game of solitaire she was in the middle of, play with the stuffed toys that sat neatly waiting for our arrival on the faded couch. But at Easter time, it was all about flinging ourselves down the grassy hill with no concern for broken bones, grass allergies and whether we’d manage to tumble to a halt before landing in the long thick grass that was no doubt home to countless snakes. Jolted necks and near dislocated limbs we’d clamber to our feet and take off down the pathways towards the massive stone mounds. There, a good brisk walk beyond the more popular Boulders Beach, we’d scramble over the rocks, scraping our knees, feeling the wind whip our hair as we reached the highest vantage points. We were adventurers exploring new worlds and pirates looking for treasure.

I can’t quite remember if we’d eventually wear ourselves out and head back willingly, or if one of the grown-ups would have to trudge down to the water’s edge and drag us back. But I do remember the freedom and delight of those days before Factor 50 sunscreen and constant supervision. Those days of not turning our noses up at the detritus and rubbish rammed down between the rocks.  Those days when our biggest concerns were the snakes in the long grass and the prickly pear bush that grinned menacingly as we tumbled head over feet down the hill and ended up winded and staring up into the wide blue sky at the bottom.

We knew nothing of our futures back then, where life would take each of us. Ten-year-old me would never have guessed that 30 years later I’d be lying on a rough wooden bench in my garden, staring up into the clear early-Autumn sky, daydreaming of future Easter egg hunts with my baby boy now wriggling in my belly. The cries of wheeling seagulls in Simon’s Town have been replaced by the caws of slowly gliding crows above Edgemead, but there’s still a taste of braai smoke in my nostrils, and if I breathe deep enough, the salty tang of the sea.

The whole world has gone bananas

If one thing has become clear over the last few weeks, it’s that the International Dish of the Apocalypse is banana bread (with sourdough coming in a close second). And as much as I find the whole thing hilarious, I’m also quite glad. Because soon after there was a massive run on toilet paper, rice and pasta, the baking aisles were also left looking as though a plague of locusts had descended. Seriously, there was nothing but a sad packet of heat-damaged store-brand chocolate chips and a mangled bag of muffin cups left to show for what had once been an impressive stock of everything the home-baker might want at supermarkets across the land. Narry a bag of flour or envelope of yeast to be found. And I was like, really? Everyone’s going to be baking their own bread as the world ends?

So yes, I’m thrilled to be seeing my social feeds jammed with pictures of all these amazing baked goods and rustic breads. Even the flops. I love that people have taken this space to try something new. Don’t get me wrong, there’s no pressure to “achieve”, to “branch out”, to “get that side hustle off the ground”. Guys, if all you want or can manage to do over this weird time is sit and stare at the TV or cry into your stale cornflakes, then do it. But for those of you who have found a little energy (however briefly) and are entertaining yourselves in the kitchen trying new things, hurrah!

My crunchy-topped banana muffins

And I love that friends who have never baked before are giving it a whirl. Just this week I’ve had two friends pop up on my What’s App asking for baking advice. “Why does the recipe say baking soda… I bought baking powder. Is the world really going to end if I use baking powder?” Reader, the short answer is no. Your biscuits will be damn delicious, but they’ll also all merge into one ginormous, flat cookie in the oven. Ask us how we know… Or, “I’m making flapjacks and I don’t have salt, is that a problem?” We got around that one by using coarse salt just crushed a bit more with the back of a spoon, only to follow it up with “What can I use instead of butter?” Do you have marge? “No. Can I use oil… olive oil?” And you know what, after a little bit of an adventure with the pan being too hot and the second batch resembling a burnt offering, his flapjacks came out beautifully.

Whether said friends try again over the next few weeks remains to be seen. But eleven days into lockdown, they both did something brand new and came out the other side with something delicious to show for it.

So far, I’ve baked a few old favourites and tried one new recipe. Charles was looking for something yum the other night and suggested I make souskluitjies (cinnamon dumplings). With the assistance of Google and under Charles’ watchful eye (because I’d never even heard of them before let alone made or eaten them) I turned out a passable first attempt. They were tasty and filling, and some lessons were learnt along the way.

And, of course, in a bid to not be left behind during lockdown, I made a batch of crunchy-topped banana muffins today (I snuck a pic in at the top). It didn’t hurt that Charles bought two big bags of bananas last week, so really, I had no choice… I mean, the last thing we want to be doing in these dire times is wasting food.

My first attempt at Afrikaans souskluitjies

Fear and Pregnancy in the Time of Covid-19

In a little under four hours South Africa officially goes into lockdown. These are uncertain and frightening times. It’s been a rough period for the world, and it’s only going to escalate. I’ve been keeping a close eye on news reports and forums to see how the spread of the virus is unfolding and what kind of effect it is having on society – from those it will likely only afflict with mild symptoms, to those who are at risk of dying. I’m pleased to see many of the “oh it’s no big deal really, it’s nothing more than bad flu, and it’s only old and sick people dying” people starting to realise that while that might be true, there’s no “only” here. We’re truly only as strong and safe as the most at-risk people in our communities.

With lockdowns here and in other countries, so many people’s jobs are at risk if not lost completely. It’s terrifying. While yes, staying home is the best way to handle this, the scope of what that means for so many is unfathomable. I’ve cried a lot over the past few days. For all sorts of reasons, and I’m not ashamed to admit, I’ll probably cry even more over the next three weeks. I’m sure many of us will. And that’s okay.

I’ve also been watching online for new research every few days particularly with regard to pregnancy. And while our immune systems are definitely compromised during pregnancy it would seem we’re no more at risk than others in our age and gender bracket at the moment. I say “seem” and “at the moment” because this strain of the coronavirus is so new and we’re still trying to understand it.

That said, I have realised that I’m going to need to start dialing back on just how much I’m reading online, or at least better curating my sources. There’s a lot of panic out there mixed in with the proper research and advice. And it all compounds. My first entire day at home on my own, I’m not going to lie, constantly scrolling through social media had me reaching levels of anxiety I haven’t seen for over a year. So how did I counteract it? I stress baked – two different batches of biscuits. So our household could stress eat for a few days after. Win win?

One of the articles I read over the last few weeks that kicked the panic into a higher gear was one dealing with the CDC’s advice for handling pregnant women who give birth while infected with the virus. The recommendation was that the mother and her newborn be separated for at least two weeks after birth. Needless to say, reading that made me delirious with fear. Imagine. And I’m not talking about having baby in an incubator and being able to visit and possibly even try to feed and stroke. I’m talking full separation where another uninfected family member must step in and take over all parenting and bonding, while the mother is isolated. Oh, I have absolutely no doubt that my partner would handle it all perfectly, but imagine how dreadful it would be for our new little family to have to begin like that? I’ve also read of certain hospitals in the US not even allowing the husband/ partner or support person into the labour ward – regardless of whether mum is ill or not. Women are having to handle childbirth without someone there to support and advocate for them and the baby if need be. Terrifying, especially for first-time mothers.

I’ve since read a few more heartening articles about how various situations might better be handled, but still, if at all possible I would like to stay healthy. And I would like everyone else around me to stay healthy too. At my most recent scan a week ago, I took all my concerns to my gynae and talked through them. Obviously – this was before our lockdown was announced, so things may well have changed. But she eased my mind somewhat, and assured me that our hospital has a team working hard on keeping up to date and making sure they’re prepared for any eventuality. She’ll keep us posted if and when things change.

Before the lockdown became a reality, we had already made the really hard decision to cancel any plans to hold a baby shower. It was a really sad choice, considering this is the first time either of us are becoming parents and we’ve both been longing for this child for the longest time, and those who love us have been so excited to celebrate with us. But in light of everything going on, we decided it was best to avoid creating a situation where we could be putting the people we love at greater risk, especially since Covid-19 is spreading quickly and often people don’t know they’ve been exposed until a few days later. Better to be safe than sorry. Especially when you hear stories of people testing positive and then still going out in public. I mean, what kind of irresponsible, self-absorbed idiot does that? And who knows how many of them there are out there. You just never know who walked down the supermarket aisle before you and pawed that packet of noodles and put it back in favour of something else. So yes, this lockdown and cancelling things you were so looking forward to is the only option.

As I said before, I’ve cried many tears over the last few weeks, and I’m sure there will be more. But I hope one day that we can tell our boy the story of when he was born and how so many people made sacrifices and put others before themselves. I want him to grow up realising how important it is to do what we can, when we can, no matter how frightening it may seem at the time.

PS. To end on a more light-hearted note, last night while making butternut soup I realised I was in fact, barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen. And I had a good chuckle to myself.

 

Bump it up

Along with the physical and emotional changes, pregnancy brings with it some mental challenges too. And I’m not talking about pregnancy brain again. I’m talking about things like the way I see myself, and how I feel about how I think other people might see me. From the initial things like worrying if people will be critical because I’m doing this for the first time at the age of 40, to stressing about whether I’m going to make a success of this whole mom business. And then there’s the body image thing.

Now, I’ve always been concerned with my shape, size and health, and over the years I’ve battled weight gain and found eating and exercise plans that work for me. But in the year before I became pregnant I picked up a bit of the weight I’d lost. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting to meet someone and start on this journey, so things like ensuring my body was in the best condition possible to create a baby wasn’t at the forefront of my mind. I mean, I started to get there in the few months leading up to, but yeah, in retrospect, I could have been a lot more vigilant.

Be all that as it may, here I am, pregnant and carrying more weight than I’d have liked. BUT I have made a conscious decision to not panic about this. My gynae hasn’t expressed any concern and neither did the doc who did my initial blood test. And I’m well aware that women generally put on weight over this period. So, I am listening to my body and going with the flow. I’m leaving the scale for my gynae visits. In the first few months when I was battling with morning and evening sickness I cut myself slack over eating toast, crackers and two minute noodles, because frankly, at least I was getting food in and keeping it there. Now that the first trimester has passed and I’m deep into the far more comfortable second I’m trying to limit the amount of bread I eat. Not just because I know that my body really doesn’t do well with carbs (don’t panic, I’m not cutting out carbs!), but because it sets my heartburn off something fierce. As do chips, chocolate, pastry, hot cross buns (sob) and orange juice. For the sake of not having to buy shares in Gaviscon, I need to ditch those things from my diet immediately. But mainly for comfort – not for weight concerns.

I’ll deal with weight loss and getting back in shape when baby is safely here and happy. For now – my body is undertaking a massive task the likes of which it’s never attempted before and I’m not putting myself under more pressure.

However, I have seen a touch of ummm, disappointment sneak in when it comes to how my growing tummy looks. Because I was already carrying weight around my middle, I do not currently have that perfectly round baby bump that more slender women show off with such pride. Don’t get me wrong… I love my belly and I can definitely tell there’s a baby under there, now. For the first few months I wasn’t sure how much was baby and how much was Mc Donalds. But there’s still a part of me who is a little jealous of those gals with perfect round bellies, where it’s easy to tell they actually are pregnant and not just a little chubby.

Standard evening position after a day at work.

What also doesn’t help is that it seems I’m carrying smaller than a lot of people would expect for this stage in my pregnancy. Oh trust me, I’m not complaining. I’m in month six and with three more months of growing to go, I’m grateful that I’m not already uncomfortably huge. What has really helped me accept my tummy and my growth process has been a global online forum I’m on for mums whose babies are due in June. Since the early weeks there have been regular posts showing off the baby bumps, and it’s been so encouraging to see just how varied our growth actually is. Some women at the same point in their pregnancy as me, look about ready to go into labour, others aren’t showing at all. And it’s a pool of women of all different shapes, ages, sizes and backgrounds. Moms onto their second, third or fourth babies are bigger much sooner too. And I’ve been delighted to discover other women whose tummies look just like mine! I know mine is filling out and soon it’ll be nice and round. But for now, it’s a work in progress. You still won’t find me swanning about in a crop top, but I’m excited to actually start looking properly pregnant.

It’s been encouraging to read posts by others who have also been feeling a touch insecure about how they look. You really are never alone. And you know, on those days that I am feeling a little self-conscious about my not-so-stereotypical bump, all I have to do is get home, lie on the bed, rub my tummy and talk to our little boy and feel him wiggling and jumping around to realise that it doesn’t matter what’s happening on the outside. The most amazing miracle is taking place inside and he’s safe and happy and comfortable.

Giraffe impersonations and pregnancy brain

This morning as I was trying to deal with a few coffee stains on the kitchen floor that have been bugging me for the last few days, without lugging around the mop, bucket and floor cleaner, it occurred me just how much I’ve had to adapt the further into my pregnancy I’ve got.

With just 14 short weeks to go, there’s no way I can possibly simply do a neat bend at the waist and quickly wipe up the errant coffee splash (that wasn’t made by me, for the record… It’s been almost 25 weeks since my last coffee… but that’s a whole nother post). I’ve always been quite adept at keeping my knees straight and touching not just my toes, but also the floor. Together with touching my nose with my tongue, it’s one of my talents that seems to surprise people most. It still seems very few people really expect someone who fits quite snuggly into the plus sized bracket to be able to have that kind of flexibility available to them. (The bending thing, not the tongue…)

But alas, no more. With much huffing and puffing, and yes, I’ll admit it, grumbling at the coffee spill perpetrators, I found myself doing a rather inelegant impression of a giraffe bending for the water hole. Except, instead of a refreshing drink of cool water, what I got was a pounding head and a sudden, spiteful resurgence of the heartburn that I thought I’d successfully drowned in Gaviscon earlier. And then I collapsed on the couch for half an hour. I mean, at least the kitchen floor is clean now… but I guess I have to admit that fighting with the mop and bucket would have been far less traumatic for everyone. (And by everyone, I mean me.) Better yet, next time I’m just gonna wait till the coffee drinkers get home and put them to work.

So, bending to reach floor level requires spreading ones legs like a giraffe to make space for the expanding tummy. It’s an ingenious tactic, really, even if it is generally accompanied by a symphony of groans and huffs. However, it doesn’t work wiith things like stepping into tights or putting on knickers. And thank goodness it’s still way too hot for socks. I have not yet had to ask for help with my underwear, and I’m still putting in a valiant effort when it comes to shaving, but the day is coming, Dear Reader, when I’m going to have to enlist the help of my man. Not with the shaving, mind, extra hair in winter will be useful if I can’t manouvre myself into trousers. But there’s no way I’m going knickerless.

Other places where adjustments have been necessary are debacles like getting up off the two seater couch where I’ve been lying for the past six and a half minutes since my last bathroom break. There was a rather shamefully droll episode a few night ago, where it took me much longer than I’d care to admit to extricate myself from said couch. On the plus side, it was a good dose of free comic relief for the other occupants of the house… yes, laugh, laugh all you will, but just you wait till… you know what, I’m still too tired from cleaning the kitchen floor to come up with a decent threat, but I’m working on it.

Which brings me to the next thing I’ve had to start making allowances for: Pregnancy brain. Since the moment the idea of being pregnant started to sink in, I’ve been trying to work out if it is, in fact, a real thing. I’ll present you with the most recent evidence and let you draw you own conclusions.

The other evening, I left work and was driving down the road, when I had a sudden panic. The panic went like this: “Oh no! Where have I put my car keys?” While I was driving. In my car. That was on. Because the keys were in the ignition.

I believe this is an appropriate place to use “FML”.

Still, it makes me laugh. And that’s all that matters, right. This is a brand new, life-changing adventure, and as hard as it is at times, and as uncomfortable as I know I’m going to get, I’m enjoying finding the lighter moments and the joy. And keeping the stories that I can’t wait to share with our boy as he grows up.

I thought I had a reasonably sweet tooth…

Last week I had my two-hour glucose tolerance test, and what an adventure that turned out to be. Because I’m me, I’d done a bunch of reading up about it beforehand and spoke to the person who would be running it for me, so I knew exactly what would be involved before I arrived.

Here’s the What and Why behind the testing:

Basically, what they’re doing is checking for potential gestational diabetes. Depending on where you are in the world there are different durations for the test, each with their own parameters. My gynae sent me for the two-hour test which required me to be fasted. (Shorter tests don’t). As the name suggests, gestational diabetes is something that develops while you’re gestating, usually during the second trimester. And the high blood sugar that results can be bad for you and your baby’s health – basically, your baby can go full Hulk (minus the green, I think… hope). The actual term is “fetal macrosomia” which means a significantly larger than normal baby. Not only would this be bad news for me who somehow needs to get the (not so) little one out into the world, but it would also mean he’d be at risk of developing type 2 diabetes in later life. So, it’s a good idea to do whatever necessary to head these things off at the pass as early as possible.

I’m not sure if they screen every mother-to-be in South Africa, but I do check a few of the boxes that raise concern: I’m older than 35, my BMI is greater than (mumble mumble), and I have previously been diagnosed with PCOS. I say “previously diagnosed” because I haven’t gone and got it rechecked recently and I have heard that changing to a low carb diet, which I did a couple of years back, can have a significantly positive effect on PCOS. So, I have no idea if it still is/was and issue for me. But when I was first diagnosed the gynae said “You’re basically infertile.” Charming. Needless to say, I never went back to her.

On Thursday morning I reported to a nearby hospital for my test, hungry as all get out, and hoping for a comfy couch on which to spend the next two plus hours. No such luck – standard waiting room chairs and an aircon that was set so cold it was literally spitting out chunks of ice (I wish I was exaggerating). First up, they drew three vials of blood, to do my fasting glucose level to make sure it was safe to go ahead with the test and also to check my iron levels and make sure the supplements I’ve been prescribed are actually absorbing properly. Then I was presented with the dreaded glucose drink. 75g of glucose diluted in a pint glass of water. In this case, mixed in unceremoniously with a fork. Now, I was prepared for it to be outrageously sweet. I’d read the horror stories of people who didn’t have a terribly sweet tooth throwing it up not too long after chugging it. But I hoped it wouldn’t be such a big deal, owing to my propensity for sweet drinks and decadent desserts. The aim is to get it down within 5 minutes, and keep it down. If you, ummm, un-drink it, they cancel the test and you have to go back another day and drink it all over again.

(I shuddered just uploading this)

This was sweet on a whole new level… but I soldiered through it pretty well, in increments of more-than-a-sip but less-than-a-gulp. And then I sat and waited. All went according to plan until about the 30-minute mark when the glucose rush hit and my body started to try to break it down. I used to suffer from vasovagal syncope when it came to things like needles or overwhelming medical issues. The sudden drop in blood pressure causes you to pass out. In recent years, however, I’ve managed to get a handle on it. I immediately recognised the tell-tale signs of an impending attack though. The room got very close very fast, my body temperature dropped even further, cold sweat, dizziness and my vision started to darken. And all I could think was “DON’T, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD, THROW UP.”

I managed to communicate to the guy that I really wasn’t “feeling good at all”, and asked with a wobbly panicked laugh “seriously, what can I do to not throw up?”, he managed to help me to the bed in the procedure room. Why is it that those beds are always so high, hard, narrow and made of what I call Government vinyl? Anyway, in the moment I didn’t care. I managed to heave my short-legged pregnant self up, and lay there watching the ice splinter as it hit the floor, breathing deeply and mildly panicking about how all of this might be affecting my baby.

Thankfully I managed to regain my equilibrium, didn’t pass out, and kept the ghastly liquid down. While I lay there, I wondered whether it would help if they added a drop of food colouring to the drink, tossed in a few cherries and a paper umbrella – so you could at least try to pretend it was something more exotic than pure glucose.

At the one-hour mark, he drew more blood. And then I moved back to the waiting room to sit for the final hour. It was during that stretch that I decided it best to not go into the office as planned. After taking such a nasty turn and considering the amount of blood they’d relieved me of, I was somewhat shaky and exhausted. At two hours, they took the last few vials of blood and sent me on my way. I went home to my bed via McDonalds. I’m completely unashamed of the Boerie Hashbrown Stack plus an extra hashbrown that I gobbled in the car. (Always, always an extra hashbrown, those things are the food of the gods). I was hungry and felt terribly sorry for myself. I did however pass on the accompanying orange juice. In fact, I couldn’t face anything sugary for the new days. Blegh.

I mean, just look at it…

My man found me and the cat passed out on the bed a few hours later, and the rest of the day was spent between the bed and the couch. I definitely would have been a write-off if I’d tried to go to work. It seems I might finally be getting better at listening to my body.

Now I’m just waiting for my gynae to call with the results. And if it turns out the tests came back positive then we’ll deal with it as necessary. But even if not, I think I should probably bid my McD’s hashbrowns farewell for the next few months – just to be on the sensible side…

 

Surviving the first trimester

You know, I wouldn’t mind the whole “needing to wee every five damn minutes thing” if when I got to the loo there was more than just a paltry trickle. I get it, when you’re pregnant and there’s a tiny human (he’s the size of a Furby this week, apparently) crowding up your insides and using your bladder as a pillow, your body changes and you’re gonna need to wee more. But at least let the effort of slogging down the office stairs and along the passage to the ladies be worth it. Not to mention the monumental waste of loo paper.

But nope… As I heave myself back up the stairs to my desk, I don’t even feel like I just went to the toilet. In fact… yep, there’s that familiar twinge that tells me I may as well just stay downstairs cos I’ll probably be aching to go again in two and a half minutes.

Thankfully the little guy is still small enough that he’s moving around quite a bit in there and hopefully the curry I had for lunch will get him wiggling enough that he’ll shift and give a little relief for a day or two.

Complaining aside, I’m utterly in awe of the fact that our son is growing inside me. And that apart from staying away from the food and liquid on the Avoid list, and reporting for regular doc visits and taking the meds they’ve prescribed, there’s nothing else I have to do. My body, and his, are just instinctively doing it all for us.

The second trimester has pretty much been a dream, heartburn aside. I have finally relented and now cart a big bottle of Gaviscon around with me in my lunch bag. Pregnancy and how we handle it publicly is such a weird thing. Like generally, by the time people start announcing it, they’ve survived most of the worst of the first trimester’s morning sickness and exhaustion. By then you’ve started to “glow” (allegedly, I suspect mostly it’s just sweat because I’m so damned hot) and people tell you how much pregnancy suits you and you beam and think “if only you’d seen me two months ago trying to keep my prenatals down by stuffing dry crackers into my face and lurching down the passage to the loo.”

I kind of wish more people were open to sharing the news earlier. I mean, I get why people don’t. But imagine the difference it would make if you could actually relax and weather the symptoms as best you could while also not having to pretend that you’re just dandy and really the only reason you’re not joining in on wine o clock is because you’ve decided to detox or are on antibiotics. I mean, I didn’t blurt the news out to the world early myself, mostly because I’m 40 and it’s my first pregnancy and nothing is really guaranteed to go according to plan, but it was a relief knowing that some people did know. So, on the mornings I arrived at work looking worse for wear, or curled up on the couch downstairs, no one hassled me.

The first few months for me were filled with excitement, fear, nervousness, uncertainty, morning AND evening sickness and a level of exhaustion I have never encountered before in my life. The kind of utter tiredness that left me wanting to sob, if I could only find the energy to draw a breath deep enough to do so. I did some reading and then set about perfecting the art of the 15-minute power nap at the office. For most of my life, it’s taken me an age to fall asleep – but suddenly I find myself so fast asleep that when the alarm goes off at the end of 15 minutes I’m yanked out of a dream and have to check I haven’t drooled on the office couch. And after that, yes, I feel a million times better and am ready to carry on working. 15 minutes – who would have thought.

But this brings me to one of the things that has left the worst taste in my mouth so far in the five months of being pregnant. When people ask how it’s been and you tell them about the exhaustion and they “so helpfully” go: “Oh you have NO IDEA what tired is. Just wait till the baby is here. Then you’ll understand tired. You’ll never sleep again.”

Sometimes, it’s people who don’t have kids, and I know they’re just saying it because they feel they need to say something and “hur hur hur isn’t it funny that she thinks she’s tired now.” But when it comes from women who have had babies already? Have you forgotten? Do you feel somehow superior because you’re further along in the motherhood journey than I am? Or are you just dishing out what you received because well, “that’s how it works, isn’t it?”

YES. I KNOW I’m going to be tired when our baby gets here. But can we please appreciate the fact that in those first few months of pregnancy, your body is working extremely hard to create an entirely new life. My body was doing things it had never done before. I was making eyeballs from SCRATCH goddamit. It drains your energy in a way I have never experienced. The prenatal vitamins just barely top you up, the amount of strain growing a human puts on your system. The changing hormones the stretching joints and ligaments, the aching breasts, the headaches, the stuffy nose, the vomiting, the food aversions…

I realise that come the third trimester, that exhaustion will return, and it’ll get more difficult to move around. I KNOW I’m going to battle when we have a newborn who is horrified he’s suddenly out in the fresh air and needs our attention constantly. It’s going to be so hard. But that doesn’t make what I’ve already dealt with any less hard. Everything is difficult when you’ve never done it before. And just because there may be worse to come, doesn’t mean that this right here isn’t super hard and trying.

Thankfully, I have a couple of mom friends who get it, enough to say, yeah, that exhaustion in the first trimester was a killer. And yeah, it’s going to be hectic when the baby arrives, you’ll be tired again. A different kind of tired. But you know what, you handled the first patch like a champ, and you’ll handle the next too. Because that’s what moms do. You’ve got this mama. (Full disclosure: that phrase used to make me cringe in the beginning. But you know what, now I’m taking it to heart and I’m owning it. Because I do “got this” and you know what, so do you.)

I’m not expecting to be treated like some kind of snowflake. Women have been doing this for millennia, and in far more trying circumstances. I’m just asking that people shelve the pithy comments and the smug laughter. Because if I have to deal with one more “hur hur hur, just you WAIT”, I will trip you up and sit my pregnant self down on you and won’t move until you promise me a lifetime supply of pink Steri Stumpie’s, all the mac and cheese I can eat, and free babysitting services for the first 15 years of my boy’s life.

Right now, however, I need to shuffle back to the loo. Oh joy.

 

 

No thank you, Turkish, I’m sweet enough

So, after last week’s post about my discovery of Candy Corn, today I’m doing a complete 180 and leaping into a 30-Day No Sugar Challenge with a handful of friends. Although, to be fair, “leaping into” might be a bit of a lie. Perhaps that should be “sidling gingerly into”… mmm, ginger biscuits… No, NO!

Reader, this is going to be a challenging month, as you can probably already tell.

Considering I ditched the sugar from my tea and coffee over 15 years ago, that part won’t be a problem. What will be difficult is avoiding sweets, chocolates and baked goods. All the obvious sugars. But I also think I’m going to try and take it a step further, in that I’ll check labels on packaged foods where there could be hidden sugar. You know, like sauces and stuff. It’s just 30 days, and it can only be good for me.

I love that I’m doing this with a group of friends. The bunch of us have been cheering each other on now for well over a year and while each of us has found our own healthy living/exercise programmes that work for our unique bodies, this will be a fun experiment as a team.

Considering I’ve set myself a rather ambitious weightloss goal for the next few months, this is probably the ideal way to ensure I don’t sabotage myself before I’ve even begun. As far as going in clean is concerned… all the Candy Corn are gone… No comment. So they are no longer a temptation. I do have a couple of social engagements coming up in this period, so I’m going to have to take those as they come and try to dig my heels in when I need to. Send help… (and custard… no just help…really).

Go check out my friend Tina’s blog to read more about what inspired her to rope us into this challenge. And maybe you’d like to even join in too. It doesn’t matter that we have already started – the more the merrier. What is it they say? Misery loves company? Hahahahahahaha I’m kidding… mostly…

And if you know where I knicked my title from, then you’re completely my kind of people.

 

In which it all gets a little Corny

I don’t know about you, but one of the things I love most when I travel overseas (relax, it doesn’t happen that often) is wandering aimlessly through grocery stores. When I first found myself in the UK way back in 2002 I was over the moon to discover an entire supermarket aisle dedicated just to different baked beans. Do I ever buy baked beans? No. I mean, I’ll eat them if they come as part of a breakfast I’ve ordered, but I can’t say I’ve ever plucked a can off the shelf and dumped it in my trolley. No, it was the sheer wonder of seeing so many different options I‘d never seen before. Same went for all the aisles and products. I mean – on day three in London I was equal parts horrified and delighted to discover a box labeled “Mr Brain’s Pork Faggots”*.

But besides the food food, I also LOVE trying sweet and chocolates from other parts of the world, and generally the gifts I stuff my suitcase with for friends and family are mostly edible.

We’re spoilt in Cape Town in that the UK Emporium has a whole range of all the wonderful things you can find in, well, the UK. And there’s a German version nearby (if it’s still there, it’s been a while). But I’ve found we don’t really see much from the States.

I belong to this great group on FB made up of fans of a couple of blogs I’ve been following for years. While there are members from all over the world, the make-up is largely American. So it’s been fascinating to learn about life over there and the differences in culture and language and, of course, food. Two years ago, around Easter time there were many discussions about seasonal treats – one of them being Peeps. I’d vaguely heard of them before. But this group (5,000 or so of my closest friends) introduced me to just how varied and exciting the world of Peeps can be. I’ll tell you all about it sometime, but today, today is dedicated to another seasonal treat specific to the USA – Candy Corn.

Exhibit A

I think I first heard about it on the blog in question when the writer made a bracelet using Candy Corn. And I was fascinated. What exactly is it? Does it taste like corn? It looks hard? Is it going to break my teeth like those crunchy chutney flavoured mielies you buy on a misguided whim when they’ve run out of Mrs Balls’s Simba chips?

Imagine my surprise when I was waiting in the check-out queue at my local “oh for Pete’s sake I forgot to buy eggs, and actually a dishwashing liquid refill wouldn’t be a bad idea either” shop, and there among the overpriced import items (Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Curly Wurlys etc) I spotted some bags of frikken CANDY CORN! At R57.99 for 85g they are horrendously expensive, so I snapped a quick pic and went on my way. Lying in bed later I posted said pic to the group with the caption:

“You guysssss! We don’t get candy corn here in South Africa, so everytime you US peeps post about it round Halloween I’ve been super intrigued. Anyway, look what I found in the import section of my local shop! I didn’t buy them cos my salary hadn’t dropped yet, and also I’m tryna cut back on sugar. But, I always assumed candy corns were hard, like crunchy candy that can break your teeth if you’re not careful. Are they not? Or are these just the consistency of jelly beans cos they’re made by Jelly Belly?”

And what occurred was an hour and a half of absolute gloriousness – until I was so tired I kept dropping my phone on my face and decided to call it a night. But you guys – 117 comments poured in, and it appears as with things like Peeps and Marmite – there are two camps when it comes to Candy Corn: Love ‘em or Hate ‘em. Within the first six comments, I’d already decided I had no choice other than to return the next day to buy a bag – for science… and also to decide which team I would be joining.

The discussion was gold, I tell you, GOLD. I’ve curated a few of the best bits for your reading pleasure because I was grinning and chuckling the whole way through. Some people were short and to the point:

“Nope, they are always soft. Like grainy jellybeans sorta…”

“Soft, and, imho, disgusting… lol”

“Soft, slightly grainy, and taste like cavities”

“They are the consistency of tears and sadness”

Others went into a little more detail:

“Candy corn (and candy pumpkins, etc) are firm and kind of waxy on the outside but they are a very chewable texture. They aren’t crunchy like hard candy and don’t have a candy-coating shell either – which now that I actually have stopped to think about what “Candy Corn” should be like based on that name, does seem totally odd.”

“Do not eat them when they are cold. For example: If you were to put them in your lunchbox with an icepack and then take one out and eat it at lunch time, you may find yourself shocking your tooth in such a way you will think you broke your brain. It’s also possible that tooth will randomly hurt when you are eating dangerous foods, such as bread. You may experience these effects on and off for the rest of your life… or so I’ve been told.”

“Eating a candy corn is the exact same experience as licking the icing off a birthday candle and getting carried away and just eating the candle. Sweet and wax and sadness. That being said, I buy a bag every year and keep them in a fancy fall jar for the aesthetique.”

“LOL… they do have a slightly waxy texture, but I happen to love them. You might need to be the kind of person who likes the corner piece of the cake with extra icing, and then scrapes up bits leftover from other people’s pieces too. They’re super sugary.”

And possibly my favourite comment of the night:

“When you eat them you must try each layer on its own. Choose two candy corn kernels. Start by nibbling off the white tops. Then when you are left with just the two yellow bottoms, you must carefully push them one at a time onto your top teeth. It’s the American way.”

This is for you, Lisa, and God bless America:

I hope I’m doing this right…

A bunch of people suggested I mix them with salted peanuts – which makes me suspect they’re same kind of savages that throw Whispers or Smarties into their popcorn at the cinema, so…

Not only did I get loads of helpful advice, but also no fewer than three recipes to make my own and a few with ways to use store-bought ones in other treats, and a bunch of extremely generous offers to post me some of the other brands as well as soon as the Halloween stuff hits the shelves.

And so, now that I’ve set the scene… Candy Corn according to Terri.

All of the descriptions I included above are accurate. On the outside, they feel like jellybeans, sink a nail into them and they kind of behave like jelly beans, but the inside isn’t jelly – it’s more like a continuation of the waxy outside, all the way through. They ARE super sweet – but in an “oh my glory I need another one immediately” kind of way, and they definitely DON’T taste like corn.

Even though I was told ahead of time, I’m still surprised they aren’t hard – I mean they look like they should be! Overall verdict is that I find myself solidly setting up camp with Team Candy Corns Are Life. But unless they become a regular feature in our shops, I shan’t be buying them often, because jeez, the price!

After the wonder of the late-night discussion, I’ve decided I’ll definitely be splurging every now and then on these “exotic” treats my international friends tell me about when I find them on our shelves. I almost had more fun discussing these little sugary (alarmingly tooth-shaped) sweets than I am having eating them… almost.

This adorable pic was attached to one of the comments last night.

So yes, I’ll be over here guarding the remainder of this 85g bag like it’s treasure (which considering the price, it kind of is).

* They’re a thing – I promise…