**Update to update**
Predictions have worsened slightly, but we still expect to be ok. They have started evacuating parts of our suburb, however, so I have left laundry and Prata Baby with MIL and come home to do a few things, including pack a suitcase. Thursday now looking dodgier than Wednesday, so we'll see how we go over the next couple of days, but really, we should still be above the waterline.

**

Just a quick update from us.

Yes, our city is "next in line for flooding" and the council is issuing alerts.

Yes, our suburb is one of the "at-risk" suburbs.

No, our street is not on the list of streets expecting/experiencing closure.

No, our house did not flood in 1974 (although the property itself did - right up to the floorboards! - so if that happened again, we wouldn't be able to really live in our house or park our car anywhere near where we live) which is good news, as the floods are not (currently) expected to be as severe this time due to changes in infrastructure. I think we're going to be good, and the hundred-year flood report on our property combined with predictions about floods to come over the next couple of weeks says life will almost certainly go on more or less as usual for us.

The one exception is our shed is quite damp, with water across the floor, which is a bit of a problem because with our small house we are actually using it to store important things. We have evacuated some stuff (I started on some of the baby stuff last week anyway) and nothing has been ruined (although I suddenly have an awful lot of laundry, but luckily MIL has a dryer which we are shortly going to avail ourselves of). Mr Bea is just off to do another check of the shed to make sure everything important is either in our living room (which is getting quite crowded at this stage!) or on top shelves, well clear of the ground (thank goodness I invested in some great shelves and also plastic storage boxes a year or so ago! Thank goodness also for our decluttering efforts over the last two years - we have a much more manageable amount of stuff and don't have to worry about things that aren't at all important to us! Yay me!)

But overall, for those watching the news, we are almost certainly going to be fine in our household and ditto for family (I'm still chasing up friends but pretty sure they're all good, too). At present, worst days are expected to be tomorrow and next Friday, so I can let you know then, but in the absence of news, expect that we are ok.

First, this:


Then this:



Now this: (summary - my feelings as I start into the last month of this pregnancy, and how they compare to last time)

Surprise Pregnancy is progressing well, if quickly. Technically, I am into the last month, although having been fifteen days past dates last time I find myself unable to take that estimate very seriously.

It's impossible, of course, not to compare my feelings this time to last. Last time I was feeling... what? "Emotionally exhausted" is probably the best description. I did not feel excited. I did not feel relieved. I did not feel nervous, or impatient, or wistful. I felt... I think I described myself as "patiently waiting to see how things turned out". I guess I felt detached. I believe I could have persisted in that state for approximately ever and ever, if that had been an option, neither moving forward to the future nor revisiting the past, but instead existing in that narrow window of emotional stillness. I had not had the opportunity to experience such stillness for the longest time.

This time, I am not still. I am somewhat restless, in fact. I am frustrated by my inability to get things done at a worthwhile pace. I am frequently tired. I am heavy. I am irritable. I feel hot too easily. I can't think or concentrate well. I have too much to do, and I am not confident in my ability to do it all. It's downright annoying, is what it is. This must be what normal women feel like towards the end of their pregnancies, when they complain of being "over it". Have I gained the sympathy I previously lacked for their "plight"? No. If anything, I have lost a little. Good grief - get a problem. See, I am even annoyed at my own annoyance.

That is, except when I am marvelling at the human body's ability to reconcile our souls to the inevitable. There is a peace in my restlessness that didn't exist in the detached stillness of the last pregnancy. I really may not do this again, and yet I find that I am more or less willing to move on. The tiredness, irritability, and other symptoms help, as does - no doubt - the prospect of a second live, take-home baby, but I don't think it's really that, or at least not just that. I am moving through the normal, emotional cycle of pregnancy in a way that eluded me before. I am living in synch with myself.

Our Christmas tree is, like, six and a half feet tall. Perhaps, to some of you, that doesn't seem so big, but when you look at it in the context of our teeny-tiny cottage, it's enormous. If I want to be able to access my back door, or the computer desk in the corner of our living room, I have to set it up so the back half is squashed into the corner, the branches bent upwards as if they never came out of the box. I can only decorate half.

And they're such adult decorations, too. The baubles and floral arrangements are insanely fragile and almost painfully refined. No bold primary colours here; no cheesy but unbreakable Rudolf figurines. Instead, we have delicate bouquets of golden leaves, glimmering, rust-coloured berries and little tiny harps. None of it is right for our house, or our lifestyle. None of it makes sense at all - except to us.

On the twenty-second of December, 2006, I wrote about our family's hierarchy of trees - the biggest at our Grandparents' place, where we all gathered to exchange gifts on Christmas morning, my parents' slightly smaller version, and our own, little desktop tree - just big enough for two. I wrote about how, over the years of our marriage, I had looked forward to upsizing our tree as we built our branch of the family, and about how, that year, I took it upon myself to re-evaluate our status in the scheme of things, to sit down with infertility and renegotiate what it could and could not have, and to, basically, buy a fucking big tree with a whole stack of very adult-looking decorations. Which is no longer right for our lifestyle.

But I put it up anyway, because it means something to me, this tree. It means something to me when The Prata Baby - bless his little heart - unpicks the very delicate, very refined bouquets in the earnest misunderstanding that the individual pieces are supposed to be separately distributed amongst the other decorations, or when he brushes against the very delicate baubles in his rambunctious charging around the house. It means something to see the playgroup craft activities taking over the branches, one by one, cutting an as-yet small, but nevertheless unforgiving line through the tasteful cohesiveness of the display. It even means something when I lift a broken decoration out of storage and wistfully place its pieces in the bin. Life is changing, and evolving; the past is gradually being chipped away. But I can still see the imprint of our history. And I can still taste how it felt to draw that line in the sand to say gosh, infertility, I can't stop you taking this or that. But these things here - they're mine. They're mine and you're not having them.

Merry Christmas to all, and special greetings to those still waiting for life to smile on them.

See Prata Baby.

That's one other thing that happened in the prenatal class. The midwife was doing a brief overview of possible complications and signs to call the hospital about. "So if you notice any of these signs of pre-eclampsia, or even if you're unsure," she sub-concluded at one point, "it's safest to just give us a call and get checked out. Pre-eclampsia can be serious. Worst case scenario, you might even start having seizures and we'll have to admit you." Uh, no... worst case scenario, you die and your baby dies, too.

But, see, it's awkward to bring that sort of thing up.

I've been taking a prenatal yoga class. I was kind of just looking for the exercise, like I got last time, but for logistical reasons (see: work, babysitting, transport arrangements) I ended up taking about a quarter of this whole yoga-based prenatal course. It's a pretty useful format for prenatal yoga, actually, and I recommend it to anyone who can stomach instructors with high-pitched, breathy tones of voice who use oracle cards to the same extent as they use plastic pelvises*.

Last week, the topic was "dealing with the unexpected". We heard the story about ending up in Holland, rather than Italy, and then we were asked to sit with a partner and discuss our worst case scenario as a prelude to an empathy exercise. At first I tensed - I can think of some pretty bad scenarios, and it's not very polite to freak people out. "You go first," I blurted clumsily to my partner, before we'd even properly sat ourselves down.

"Damn. I was going to say that," she replied, and sat thoughtfully for a moment, before stealing a hesitant glance in my direction. "Well, this is my second time around," she explained, "and after what happened last time, I realise how useless it was to spend all that effort worrying about how I might handle the pain or about various interventions that may or may not be needed. I think as long as my son survives-" she touched her belly- "that's really all that matters."

I nodded gravely. Then, as gently as I could muster, I ventured, "It sounds like things didn't turn out well last time."

"Oh!" she hastened to assure me. "No, they did, they did. Everything went perfectly, in fact. No no no. I just realised, afterwards, how short and insignificant the birth experience was in the grand scheme of things. This time around, I know we'll be ok as long as everything turns out in the long run. That's all. So yes - my worst case scenario is that my son dies. Er... what about yours?"

"Well, it's hard to choose," I replied, feeling a bit reassured about my natural response. "I mean, your baby dying - that's bad. But then what if you died? Or both you and the baby? Or one or both got a very serious injury - in extreme cases, that sort of thing might even be worse." I stopped myself short. "Basically, I agree that I'm fine as long as it turns out ok in the long run. I mean, in the story, everyone actually landed, after all." As we were nodding, the instructor chimed the bells to signal the end of the activity and invited us to assume the lotus position and re-centre our energies using deep, cleansing breaths**.

But I couldn't help trying to think up ever wilder scenarios all afternoon, and when Mr Bea came home, it was his first instinct, too.

"What would be really bad," we found ourselves musing, "would be a coordinated terrorist attack on the hospital during the birth, wherein you and your partner and baby were taken hostage, tortured, and then eventually and horribly killed in some grizzly way or other..." there was a pause here whilst we ran through some grizzly modes of death inside our heads... "one by one and in front of each other. For an ignoble cause you were violently opposed to."

It's not just us, right?

---
*Although naturally cynical, I tend to think most of this hippy-dippy stuff is just one way of expressing otherwise perfectly sensible ideas. Which is kind of what my mother said when she saw my oracle card. After she stopped sniggering.

**Or in other words: everyone sit down now and shut up. See what I mean?