actually it is quite a big deal

Why yes, I am most definitely pregnant. No doubts about that, even among complete strangers. Some of whom seem mildly alarmed when I tell them I'm not due until late January - the raised eyebrows are a dead giveaway. But then there are the women at the school gate who tell me how lovely I look - one even used the expression "absolutely beautiful" - and bless their hearts doesn't it make my day. I find it amazing that (some) women have this innate understanding that a pregnant woman, no matter how well her day is going, could always use a little compliment. And when she's feeling huge, tired, faint, hot, ungainly and irritable that compliment is like a bear hug for the soul. I love that there are these kinds of women in the world, and that some of them can't resist rubbing your belly and smiling. It's a source of aggravation for a lot of pregnant women but for me it's just nice to know someone appreciates what you're going through and can see beyond the sometimes mundane nature of being pregnant to the miraculous.

whatever the weather

You might be wondering, as am I, what happened to the whole month known as September. I vaguely recall a couple of positively beautiful days that had me singing "Spring oh sweet Spring" and taking a lot of time - literally - to smell the roses. But then those days vanished, blown by the wind that clearly misread the calendar and thought it was still August. Maybe it couldn't see straight for the 10,000 tonnes of topsoil it brought with it from the region formerly known as a dustbowl (when it still had dust). Then there were several days of coldness and wetness, which I was pretty sure would not last since my birthday was just around the corner and it's October for pity's sake! Apparently with each of these annual milestones I grow more clueless about the weather.

So, last birthday I clearly recall an early morning swim at Nambucca Heads. This year the idea of swimming in anything other than hot springs was out of the question. But we did see sun, and a bit of rain, and hundreds of the most beautiful roses ever to raise their lovely heads, at a not-so-little garden not so far from here. I came home to admire my own beautiful bunch of roses, eat chocolate cake and marvel at my good fortune - my Elsa, my Freya, my Rosa and my Randal to keep me company and make it the kind of Happy Birthday you just won't find in any greeting card.

Now it's almost halfway through October, and I have three more days of work before my 58 weeks of maternity leave starts. Whatever the bureau has to say, the forecast from Friday is for blue skies.

in other growing news

This incredible flower was grown in my own garden, with very little input by me except that I planted the rose bush some years ago, in among some much older ones. It produces less than a handful of blooms each year, but it didn't half make an effort with this one. It's almost a hand-span across, and just keeps stretching out its petals, puffing out its chest. It's called a Double Delight, which is somewhat misleading since it clearly is much more delightful than that. I guess it was so named because it has two colours, but it might also be that it looks and smells totally intoxicating. And in my case, it might also be because I'm both surprised and delighted when it rewards my lack of gardening know-how with such a stunning bloom every now and again, when I least expect it. Delightful.

now showing

Maybe it was the vegie burger I had for lunch. Or the two hot chocolates. Or the large slice of chocolate cake (it was a special occasion). But I like to think this baby is finally beginning to make its presence felt to people other than myself. Luckily I wore my new maternity jeans to lunch - $65 at Jeans West (yes, Jeans West sells maternity jeans) and oh, so comfortable. I have a new and deep appreciation for stretch cotton and waistbands that reach up to your boobs.

truth, beauty and chaos

When I wrote about my happiness a little while ago, I mentioned (twice) that having a baby had bordered on catastrophic for my mental health. This may alarm those of you who now know that I'm pregnant with my third child, but rest assured I am not alarmed. Alert, but certainly not alarmed. There are moments, I confess, when I have a slight panic about the prospect of raising three children, of welcoming a newborn baby into our lives, which have just recently seemed to be a little smoother, in a moments-of-complete-chaos kind of way. But then I focus on why I wanted to have this baby, that feeling at my very core that believed it would be so right. It's about lots of things, but mostly it's about being true to what I believe in. Trusting myself. Sometimes when people find out my news I sense shock, or pity, or even ridicule. It's not for them to say, of course, and not for me to know if I'm just imagining it. It doesn't matter in the least when I'm focusing on the truth and beauty of the journey we're on, all the little and great things that lie within. Along with moments, I'm sure, of complete chaos. How else would we know we're alive?

the raw ingredients

I have several issues with food, the most pressing of which just lately has been that none of it is at all appetising (except maybe Kraft deluxe macaroni cheese, but whether that can technically be called food is debatable). I blame the pregnancy hormones for this latest issue, but there are many more that go way deeper than that. My biggest problem with food, however, is that I despise having to prepare it. The stress I feel taking over my body as dinner time approaches every night is akin only to that I feel when I'm sitting in a dentist's waiting room and drilling can be heard. My children are both incredibly fussy eaters and Freya has her own issues including the texture and appearance of food. She would probably be happy to eat sausages every night of her life. I probably need not mention what the smell of sausages cooking does to my nausea-addled stomach at the moment, so her sausage intake has fallen considerably in recent weeks. Another few notches added to the mother guilt.

I have tried cooking flavoursome, minimally adventurous meals for the younger set, all met with incredulous stares and point-blank refusal to eat. Frustrating doesn't even begin to cover it. So I have chosen to go the easy, conflict-free route and largely give them what they want to eat. I want them to be relaxed about food. I want them to enjoy eating, not feel like their dragon of a mother is breathing down their neck forcing them to eat. I connect food with nurturing, so my shortcomings in the cooking department weigh heavily on my perceived worth as a mother. I don't think I'm alone there. I wish I loved cooking. I wish they loved eating. But wishing doesn't help.

What has helped, surprisingly, has been a little reality TV show called MasterChef. If you haven't been living under a rock, you may have heard of it. I haven't been watching it all, but in the past few weeks have been incredibly inspired by one of the contestants, Julie. She's actually in the final two as of last night. Julie is a mother and her reason for cooking is always clear - she does it for her sons and husband, as a display of her love, and what they get out of it is nothing compared to the joy she feels in doing it for them. I so envy her that ability to cook, and to have such a healthy emotional connection with the process. It's been such an eye opener to hear her speak so passionately about cooking. And it makes me think maybe I can be like that one day. I normally hate ''foodies'' but something about MasterChef is so real, and so fascinating, that the egos fade into the background and it's really just about the skill of cooking, creating sustenance for other people to enjoy. I haven't been able to eat much in the way of appetising food lately, but I've loved watching other people make it.

I had a glimpse of Julie's motivation just the other day, when I was icing a cake I'd baked for Elsa's seventh birthday. I make one every year, and every year I want it to be special. Not in a three-tiered, elaborately decorated way but in a real way. I want it to look lovely, to be delicious, and to let her know that I love her so much and I want her birthday to be as fantastic as she is. It was that feeling that I put into every spatula stroke of the pale pink icing as I finished her seventh birthday cake, and I was so grateful for it. Small steps, admittedly, but maybe one day I'll be feeling that same way as I serve up a creamy risotto or a rustic vegetable lasagne for my girls and they say "Thanks Mum, that looks delicious!"

Happy birthday my darling girl.

PS: If you'd like to talk to me, you can now comment without needing a blogger sign-on. It's open slather. Please be nice.

me again. remember me?

Has it been two months already? Really? I guess I should write something down then. The happiness conference went swimmingly, was quite an experience and I'm glad I went, despite the frequent panic attacks and crying that went on behind the closed doors of my huge but fishbowl-like apartment in the centre of Hell - I mean Sydney. And about two weeks later some lovely Buddhist monks came directly to Newcastle to create a sand mandala and spread the message of happiness in a week-long engagement at City Hall - 20 minutes from home. I chose to take this as a sign from the universe that I need not look too far from myself to find that which I am seeking. It shouldn't be that hard. Sometimes it's right under your nose.

There's been a few other things happening of late. Namely, I'm expecting my third child and battling the nausea that I had completely forgotten about - a lot like labour, I'm guessing, but it's a bit late when you're in the delivery room to say "Sorry, hadn't thought this one through.'' I had been feeling comparatively sprightly in the past couple of weeks but in recent days actual vomiting has been involved. Since I'm 12 weeks on Wednesday, I'm assuming the sun will shine brighter that morning, birdsong will ring out and all signs of the sickness will be a distant memory. That's very much the assumption I'm holding onto, actually, if the universe is reading this, and I'll be awfully disappointed if reality doesn't match up. I'm also anticipating a return to the consumption - and enjoyment - of real food. This includes tea of the milky, sugary kind that I have savoured practically every day of my life since I was five. Which I can no longer even smell without wanting to throw up.