Oops… It’s a Boy!

It’s a good thing that I had the kidz in hospital, because they might have grown up into very confused adults.

Why? I hear you ask (go on, ask).

Because I have made a grave error in the sex of our recently aquired stray cat, Kitty Camper.

That’s right, she is a he, and I had no idea that I was so far off base.

Luckily, the cat seems to have suffered no dire consequences from the mix-up, and the kidz aren’t too traumatized, either.

Who made the discovery? (yes, that’s you asking another question).

It was the vet. I finally got around to taking her… erm, him in for a check-up last week. Wren & Mr Bump came along to see what went on.

They were as surprised as I was to discover that the cat that they’ve been calling ‘Kitty Camper’ and ‘Princess’ is more of a ‘Prince’.

Renaming became imperative.

You can imagine the damage to his street-cred with a name like ‘Kitty Camper’, not to mention the other…

Might as well give him a pink fluffy collar, call him ‘Mr Campy’ and enter him in the Mardi Gras next month.

After a number of suggestions, I thought of ‘Mr Underfoot‘, the cat in Friday, one of my favourite Robert Heinlein books.

The kids think it’s hilarious, and call him ‘Undies’ for short.

It’s a slight improvement.

Now I just have to hide Mr Bump’s pink Barbie dress before he starts school…

A Bird in the… What?

If a bird in the bush is worth two in the hand, what is this one worth?

Mr Bump & I saw this bird the other day as we were leaving OfficeWorks, surveying the world from inside their drainpipe.

We spent the next 20 minutes talking about what would happen if it rained and the roof filled up with water.

Mr Bump decided that the bird wouldn’t block up the pipe, because it would get washed out by the rain and have a shower.

Is every woman in labour this dopey?

With Wren’s birthday coming up next week, I’ve been reminiscing about her formal entrance into this world.
As you do.

And while the memory of the pain involved does indeed fade with time, the embarrassment remains.

My main memory is of suddenly becoming scared and refusing to open my legs to push.

That’s right, when the midwife judged the time was nearing, I clenched my knees and refused to co-operate. I don’t know how I thought that baby was coming out, but it wasn’t through down there.

Luckily, my mother was also present and knew how to deal with the situation. Seeing that I was beyond persuasion she turned to persuading the midwife, and the pair of them ganged up on me. Bullies.

They each grabbed a knee and, well, let’s just say that I was not the winner in the very short wrestle that ensued.

Once Wren finally emerged and was laid, naked and pink, on my deflated belly I blurted “It’s a real baby”. Real perceptive.

The attending medical circus must have thought I’d slipped a cog. Pethidine has a lot to answer for.

Then again, maybe dopeyness is more common in this situation. In the interests of objective scientific research, I’d love to hear your dopiest birth stories.

What were your first words upon sighting your newborn? Did you brawl with your obstetrician?

Feel free to bare all here, or if you write a post about it on your own blog, I’ll include a link to it.

Happy Birthday to Me

Yep, at 8:10pm this evening I’ll be officially 36 years of age.

In my mid- to late-30’s.

Whoopee!

I’m not concerned, age is all in the mind isn’t it?

Considering that I  wore one of my birthday bras strapped onto my head for half an hour, I’d say my mind is in no danger of becoming middle-aged just yet.

It’s really kind of sad that neither Wren nor Mr Bump saw anything particularly strange in my behaviour.

They didn’t even laugh…